


and if it's all a mirage?

by mismatched (miscalculated)



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Idols, Consensual Kink, Consensual Possession, Dom/sub, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Manhandling, Moral Ambiguity, Otter in a Collar, Power Dynamics, Size Difference, Soloist Lee Chan, Subdrop, tags will be updated as fic is, thinly-veiled love letter to lee chan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 98,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscalculated/pseuds/mismatched
Summary: “Okay?” Wonwoo whispers. “You can choose.”“I can choose,” Chan repeats, so soft that it’s barely a sound at all, and another deep breath escapes him. He doesn’t let go of Wonwoo, anchoring himself to something. Something real.*KALEIDOSCOPE Entertainment’s Lee Chan is spotted in Hongdae with Rapper Choi Jaewon and Unknown Woman.
Relationships: Jeon Wonwoo/Lee Chan | Dino
Comments: 96
Kudos: 149
Collections: A Sip of Summer Wine





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capricornia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capricornia/gifts).



> **Prompt** : Chan feels like everyone in the world wants to claim him. He doesn't always show it, but it weighs on him, this duty to be good for everyone, for the fans, for the media. He just needs one person to belong to, someone who wants him for all of him. And oh, does he want to belong.
> 
> -
> 
> howdy!! 
> 
> if you told me i'd be writing a long-form wonchan two months ago i would've been skeptical—but i wanted to give this prompt the time and care it deserved, so i told myself to buckle down and put in the effort. ive added a lot of my own self-indulgence into this, so i hope Prompt Writer (coughcapricorniacough) enjoys it regardless. 
> 
> the tags will be updated with each chapter as needed. **there are a few things i would like to make clear for the sake of making sure you're an informed reader:**
> 
> * there are zero (0) sexual interactions, thoughts, or otherwise towards Chan when he's underage. you can argue that it doesn't make the dynamic any more morally righteous—and i have several (agreeable) thoughts about that assessment that i'll dig more into at a later date—but i just need to be clear as to why there are no major warnings. 
> 
> * my intent is not (and has never been) to make a moral statement or to affirm some form of personal agenda; more specifically, i am not trying to convince anybody about ideas concerning the idol industry, what is/isn't appropriate coping mechanisms, what is/isn't appropriate dynamics for two people in different positions/ages/mental states, etc. of course i have my own opinions, but that does not mean i am trying to make them _yours_ , if that makes sense.
> 
> with that out of the way, i hope anyone reading enjoys! the plan is to keep this updated and finished by late september/early october the latest. but it all depends on how my outline is carried out. 
> 
> thanks so much for reading, and feedback means a lot [heart emoji]

**KALEIDOSCOPE Entertainment’s Lee Chan spotted in Hongdae with Rapper Choi Jaewon and Unknown Woman**

Dispatch released photos on June 12 of Lee Chan, 21, a music artist from KALEIDOSCOPE Entertainment leaving Quartz Tattoo Parlor in Hongdae, Seoul. He was spotted shortly after 10PM with rapper Choi Jaewon (stage name Red), 32, and a woman that could not be identified. This sparked controversy and dating rumors when fans noticed Chan had an arm around the woman’s waist and a hug that was caught on camera. As of June 13, his company, KALEIDOSCOPE Entertainment, has yet to respond. 

Lee Chan is a solo vocalist that has been active under KALEIDOSCOPE Entertainment since 2016. He is known for his hits, Flower and Highlight, and quickly rose to fame after the release of his solo debut album Beautiful Forms. 

[+ 435, - 45] His company works so hard only for him to spit in their faces. He is a selfish kid 

[+ 310, - 12] chan is my favorite vocalist but i am very disappointed in him. Hanging out after business hours with shady tattoo artists, tattooed rappers and cheap looking girls 

[+ 843, - 95] somebody wants to grow up too fast kkkk. Red is a decade older than him. Wow chan did you let the fame go to your head? Kkkk 

[+ 652, - 57] he better apologize himself and not hide behind his company. When idols get big they suddenly think they don’t have to interact with their fans anymore. Chan apologize to your colours! 

⬳

Sungmin doesn’t say much when he hands Chan the microphone; and, really, that says enough. It’s always a precarious time promoting as an idol — always being one bad comeback, one slip of the mouth, one expression that can be interpreted hundreds of ways away from disbandment — but with the album set to release in a week, this is the worst possible month for a scandal. Dispatch has to know this, of course. Why else would they suddenly release photos that they’ve been holding onto for more than a month now? 

Chan hasn’t been in Hongdae since the first weekend in May, preparations for his stage taking precedence over any recreational pleasures; that Saturday night was Chan’s first opportunity to see Red and Yubin since they went to visit a sister parlor in Daegu and Chan had to spend long days in the studio perfecting choreographies. Once the shop closed up at eight, they relocated to the employees’ room in the back for a _poor man’s pregame_ , as Red put it, and two hours later they were ready to go to _Club Aura_ , an underground bar a friend of a friend put Yubin on. He remembers that weekend. There’s no way he doesn’t. Chan wore the dangling, winged earring Kyung gifted to him on his twentieth birthday, and Yubin spent an excruciatingly long time lining his lids and waterline with kohl black eyeliner. 

Eyeliner that he ended up smudging after one too many lemon drop shots and a good cry in the VIP section, surrounded by friends and acquaintances and half-dressed women. Feifei was there to kiss him better, cooing and holding him in her arms, but he was (embarrassingly) inconsolable. _I’m so tired of never being good enough. Why am I never good enough, noona? What am I doing wrong?_ All was forgotten — more like ignored — once he sobered up at four in the morning and took a cab back to the dormitories ( _Club Aura_ closed and the employees kicked them out). But. Chan remained mortified for weeks after. Fei had mercy on his soul and laughed it off when he called to apologize. 

And now it’s coming back to haunt him. Blurry snapshots of him wrapped up in Yubin’s arms because he fucking _missed_ her and she’s given him the closest sense of belonging that he’s had in years. The closest sense of feeling like he belongs to himself and not to the entire country. 

Another piece of autonomy that he’s going to have to give up. 

Wonwoo was the manager they sent into his room the evening Dispatch released the pictures. A man of few words, he kept it short and sweet. “It’s hard. And I know it’s not what you want to hear,” he’d said, sitting on the corner of Chan’s bed as Chan leaned against his headboard and sobbed. “But as long as you’re under Kaleidoscope, the fans are more important than anything. More than friends, family, ourselves. We survive because Colours support you.” 

Then there was a late-night chat with his managers, Sungmin being one of them, and the outcome was an apology note. A note Chan had to memorize and rehearse and prepare to repeat to the press with quote-unquote ‘as much sincerity as you can muster’. Manager Jinho. 

This he can do. He’s been performing for the past six years. 

Standing in front of the journalists with his solemn managers beside him feels like being dissected. And as he raises a shaky hand up, microphone pressed to his bottom lip, over fifty pairs of eyes take a scalpel to his chest, slicing him open from the sternum down, extracting his ribs, one by one. Whatever’s left of them, anyway. Each year a new incision is made, and greedy hands eviscerate him alive. Some to the fans, some to the media, some to the company; Chan speaks with a loaned tongue, a borrowed speech — _to my Colours, the fans that give me the world, and to my company, I am so sorry for my actions. I am reflecting and I promise to do better. I am not dating anybody, nor have I ever as an idol under Kaleidoscope. I understand that. . ._ — dressed in rented clothes. 

Wonwoo’s right. He’s a musician and one of the most popular idols in South Korea, and he’s scarified his teenage years for this: stardom. The least he can do is give himself to anyone that wants a piece. This is what he repeats ad nauseam, a mantra thick enough to coat his trachea and choke him alive, until he finishes his performance. Sad, regretful Lee Chan. It’s not as if he has any use for his lungs. Those were stolen year one. 

June in Seoul is often unpleasant, but this year the average is 27 degrees celsius, unbearably humid. Chan sits through a slew of meetings with Sungmin, the manager assigned to their public relations team. The first time he’s beckoned from group dance practice to sit in a conference room with Sungmin and two other team members, he’s alone. Comeback season looms over him, and with only forty eight hours left to tighten up lines, to synchronize his dance until flawless, the air hangs thick, sweltering. Seoul’s heat, in contrast, cools him. 

The aim is to scare. At least, that’s what Chan’s thinking when Sungmin gives him that solemn, exhausted look, the one that’s meant to paint the room with dread. Lights dimmed and casting harsh shadows, Chan on one side of the table, Sungmin and his subordinates on the other. And he can already hear their words ringing inside of his head, the _you’re the reason we have to suffer. You’re the only person dragging us down_. 

It’s Sungmin that burns the worst of all. 

“I understand that kids your age go through a transitioning phase,” he’s saying, “but this is not the time nor place for it. Chan. You’re smarter than this.” 

He can’t breathe. It’s a heat the aircon can’t dispel. 

“Who do you think you are? Do you think this is a playhouse? Do you care about anybody other than yourself?” 

Boiling. Chan’s skin is going to slough off. He’s going to suffocate right here, in this frigid office seat, and when he’s gone they’ll stuff his hollow body and mount him on a mannequin. Again, the distant ring of voices: _your fault. This is your fault. This is all your fault_. 

“Your image is everything, Chan. This isn’t you. You know this isn’t you. You’re—”

Sweet. Sweet and pliable, folding when folded, everybody’s for the taking. Whatever he needs to be to be wanted. 

“ _Foolish_. Your fans want you to stay the same. How do you think it looks when _Lee Chan_ is partying, or— or, cuddling with women in _public_? Huh? Chan. Answer me.” 

To speak when spoken to. “Bad,” Chan whispers. Everything’s turning into a haphazard mess of colors. “It looks bad. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll do better. Sungmin-nim. I’ll be—” _good_. 

Chan is—Chan is soft, demure, the boyfriend that blushes and stammers on his words when he tells you he loves you, that asks your father for your hand in marriage. Chan doesn’t wear dark eyeliner outside of concepts, he doesn’t drink or look at anybody else but you. You’re his heart, his soul, his Colour. That’s the Chan they want—that’s the Chan he’s been —that’s the Chan he’ll be. He doesn’t know how to be anything else. 

Private meetings become group meetings twenty four hours before his comeback. Jinho’s mad. Of course he’s mad. Chan would be mad at him, too, if he were the one to risk the company’s success for his own, selfish desires. So Chan bows his head and takes it, digests whatever Jinho has to give him. 

"I know you've seen what they've been saying about you," Sungmin says, "about the company. Whether you like it or not, you’re a public figure. This isn't Chan Entertainment." 

"He's heard it all before," Wonwoo says. "Let's try to think of solutions, not find more reasons to yell at him. Look at the kid. He’s—”

" _Not_ a kid," Jinho counters. "He's not a kid, Wonwoo. That excuse won't work anymore." He crosses his arms, clicks his tongue. "Not like it ever did." 

He's right. Chan knows he's right. Jinho and Sungmin, and—and. "I was being selfish," Chan tries, despite himself. Despite the way his lungs feel like they're on fire, like he's taking in smoke with each inhale. "This,” he stops to swallow hard around a thick glob of saliva; it drags down his esophagus in thorns, "performing is the most important thing in my life. I'm so sorry, hyungs."

They're all staring at him. He isn't looking up from the conference table, instead opting to focus on the itinerary sitting in front of him — but he can feel their gazes. Disgust, pity, anger. And of course he's seen the tabloids. He's seen his name sprawled across article after article, his name in the top searches for the past week. Chan's getting complacent. Chan thinks he doesn't have to work hard anymore, because he's one of the most-paid idols in the country. Chan thinks he's so much better than everyone. Suspend Chan from activities and any future comeback since he clearly doesn't want to participate. 

"What's done is done," Wonwoo starts. It's a weak flutter, frustration spilling out in lieu of his attempts to reel himself in. "The only thing you can do now is try your best for the showcase." 

Chan's burdened him the most of all. His longest-standing manager. The one meant to make sure mistakes like this don't happen. Wonwoo's had his own fair share of reprimanding, Chan surmises; fault always falls back on him. 

Another person he's disappointed. Chan wants the earth to open up and eat him whole. 

Backlash doesn't stop after his apology. It almost feels like it's gotten worse, like Chan's speech was just fodder to reignite the fire, get it stirring until it's impossible to ignore. Sungmin's next suggestion is a handwritten letter.

So Chan writes the letter.


	2. have you any dreams you'd like to sell?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was. It was being dunked into water, everything slowing down, fractionated light warm and overwhelming. It wasn’t Chan seeking comfort the only place he knew to receive it, pretending to be Lee Chan and not ‘Lee Chan’ if only for that night. This was—Chan was seeking comfort then, yeah, but it was stained, drops of food coloring twisting the white into little swirls of black. Or maybe Wonwoo was the one staining it, ruining something that was once pure, a little heart-breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now here I go again I see a crystal vision,  
> I keep my visions to myself.  
> it's only me who wants to wrap around your dreams,  
> have you any dreams you'd like to sell?  
> dreams of loneliness 
> 
> \- _Dreams, Bastille & Gabrielle Aplin_

_Four a.m. - hair and makeup; five a.m. - kpop radio call time; eight a.m. - inside idol variety show; twelve p.m. - emnet rehearsals & prerecording; three p.m. promotions meeting . . . _

Wonwoo reads tomorrow’s itinerary for the fifth time that evening, making absolute sure he has the details properly transcribed into his notes app from Sungmin. He knows more than anyone that Wonwoo can be forgetful, somehow still managing to fuck-up the schedule after six years of this shit. Which they’ve long since attempted to mitigate by having the emails forwarded to both Chan and his inboxes (because if Chan misses something due to somebody else’s stupidity he will set their bed on fire. Wonwoo is absolutely convinced that he would)—but, number one, that shouldn’t be Chan’s job. That’s _Wonwoo’s_ job. And, number two, Chan is way too busy to check after his manager(s). 

Especially not now, during fall promotions, smackdab in the middle of a new comeback. It’s been crazier than ever, if that’s possible for an idol of his stature; there are a lot of sales to catch up on, a reputation to heal. Chan’s worst summer comeback yet has passed in a flurry of smear campaigns, harsh words, and even more harsh feedback from daepyonim and higher-ranking managers. Punishment has been to fill Chan’s every waking hour—and _sleeping_ hours, much to Wonwoo’s chagrin—with dance practice, vocal lessons, recording sessions and schedules to be sure that he’s accounted for all the time. 

All the time. 

_This shit happens again on your watch and he won’t be the only person suspended from activities_ , Park daepyonim informed him during a mandatory pre-fall comeback meeting. _Social media is finally starting to clear up, move on. Keep your eyes on him, Wonwoo-ssi._

So, that’s what Wonwoo’s doing. Keeping his eyes on him. It isn’t as if he has to worry about Chan sneaking out for some semblance of normalcy, though, because after the hell that was June, July, and August, he’s snapped right back into who he’s always been—fiercely determined to succeed, hard working to the point of concern. 

Insanity. He’s insane. 

Wonwoo finds him practicing his EP’s title track choreography in the company dance studio, the one assigned specifically for him, and this is the thought that crosses Wonwoo’s mind. Chan has regressed somewhere deep into the recesses of his mind, like a permanent subspace that he can’t—refuses to—shake himself out of. To anyone else, there’s nothing out of the ordinary for _the_ Lee Chan to be dancing at three in the fucking morning when he has a four a.m. wake up time, but six years of proximity has given Wonwoo an insight into Chan’s psyche that no one else has. 

Lately, though, Wonwoo thinks he’s lost that insight. 

“Channie,” Wonwoo mumbles as he pushes the door open, “you know you have somewhere to be in fifty-eight minutes, right?” The door shuts with a loud click behind him. 

There’s no music playing. Chan is watching his own expressions in the mirror while dancing to an invisible song, repeating certain sections with a new one each time, probably to see which fits the best with whatever move. His sleeveless grey tee is so damp with sweat that if Wonwoo didn’t know any better he’d think he poured his bottle of water over himself; his dark brown hair is sticking to his face in strings. 

Chan doesn’t startle or falter at Wonwoo’s presence. He continues to execute a body roll, eyes wide and demure while his smile leans close to seductive. “Coffee?” 

Wonwoo rattles the ice around in the plastic cup since Chan’s not paying him any mind, “Extra strong, just as you requested.” He approaches, moving over to the speakers off to the left so that he’s in Chan’s line of sight. “Have you slept in the past twenty-four hours?” 

“You can nap if you want,” Chan responds curtly, still watching himself test out a new expression, this one more cutesy than the previous. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

Chan moves past the body roll, starts to practice the part of the song where it’s more about how endearingly shy and inquisitive he is rather than the footwork. “I napped.” 

Desperate to mend what had been destroyed, Park made the unanimous decision to return to the cute, high school-boyfriend concept of Chan’s teens; it’s what the fans fell in love with, after all. Fifteen-year old Chan in a uniform, wide-eyed and unassuming, singing with a powerful voice about wanting to ask a girl out but always messing up. His coming of age allowed him a tad more artistic freedom, allowed him a more sexy persona that Colours weren’t accustomed to seeing—but, of course, that had to coincide with Chan getting caught doing actual sexy, bad boy behavior, and now damage control has him back to this. Back to pretending he’s still a teen with big dreams, a docile disposition. There are several layers to this, several things that make Wonwoo’s lungs burn thinking about. You have to learn to compartmentalize to survive here. 

He’s gotten so good at it that sometimes he doesn’t recognize the voice slipping from between his lips. _As long as you’re under Kaleidoscope, the fans are more important than anything. More than friends, family, ourselves. We survive because Colours support you_. 

(Why the fuck did he say that to him? It’s as if the walls in Chan’s chest were knocked over back then, when everything was so fresh that it bled out through Chan’s tear ducts, and before he could rebuild, Wonwoo slipped in a bomb, timer set to random. Anytime now and it’ll detonate.)

“A nap,” Wonwoo deadpans. “You do know your entire day is booked tomorrow,” he pauses to sigh, “ _today_ , right? You need sleep to do your—” 

Chan abruptly stops animating to shoot Wonwoo a tired, exasperated stare. “When are my days not booked? I know, hyung. Just,” he approaches Wonwoo and pries the iced coffee from his hand. Wonwoo wipes off the condensation on his slacks, “It’s not like you to question my ability to perform. I’m a professional. I got this.” 

_This isn’t like you either_ , almost slips, but he thinks better of it at the last minute. Instead, Wonwoo sucks in a shaky breath, exhales it through his nose as Chan sleepily sips on his coffee, shoves his wet fringe out from in front of his eyes. 

He doesn’t have the authority nor the right to question Chan’s recent shift, albeit he worries himself to death. Chan’s going to do a great job as he always does, of course; that was never the issue, the thought that keeps Wonwoo up at night, lighting a match in his trachea. It’s the other way around. 

Being an idol and sleep deprivation are interchangeable. Wonwoo knows that, as Chan’s first manager, and Chan knows that, too. But, Chan hasn’t slept more than four hours in the past two days, and while copious layers of makeup can hide his under-eye bags, create a mask that Chan utilizes to present himself as the exuberant, giggly Lee Chan the world has come to love, it doesn’t change the fact that there’s a bomb set to detonate. 

And maybe Wonwoo didn’t put it there himself. Maybe he just knocked some days, hours, minutes, off of the countdown. Maybe it’s been there, hidden behind Chan’s sternum—squeezed inside the mediastinum that separates his heart from his lungs—the day he signed his childhood away. What does a child understand? _How_ can they? 

All he understood was that he was thirteen, his parents thought he was talented, and he was going to be a star. 

(Asterisk.)

Wonwoo doesn’t realize he’s been silently staring at Chan for the past however many minutes until Chan’s halfway through with his coffee and has a hand pressed to the divot of Wonwoo’s elbow. He startles then, blinking him into view. 

“Um,” Wonwoo starts, voice gravelly. Chan’s skin against his feels like an icy-hot patch. He removes himself from the burn. “Let’s get back to the dorms, okay? We have a long day ahead of us.” 

  
  


It’s still a mind fuck to remember that Wonwoo became well-acquainted with Chan when Chan was only fifteen, and he himself was a twenty-three year old new grad with his first ‘adult’ job. He was still in his own training period when Chan, freshly thirteen, signed to Kaleidoscope as the youngest trainee the company had yet. 

Funnily enough, Chan at thirteen was more confident and self-assured than Wonwoo at twenty-three. He was polite, took instruction well, and fought to keep up with the older kids no matter how exhausted or unequipped he was. Wonwoo was a gangly, awkward guy that liked to play MMORPGs and wank off to very niche types of porn and/or hentai in his free time. That all had to change once he became responsible for Chan’s well-being. He was only one of the three managers that were assigned to Chan, and he had a lighter workload since he lacked seniority. Regardless, he was Chan’s first and longest standing manager. 

The only constant in his formative years. His only constant _now_. That’s what made it all the more heinous, Wonwoo thinks. 

Chan at twenty was still riding the coattails of his peak. His solo debut had essentially built the company from the bottom up, given them the financial stability to expand and take on more trainees, demand a space in the industry. Chan came at the right time, brought the exact energy needed to survive; he was multi-talented in song and dance, knew how to play the game of seduction so well that his victims didn’t know they were being hypnotized until it was too late. A hard-worker, a people-pleaser—and then a handsome young man celebrating his coming of age. 

It was an intimate little party in the dormitories; Chan didn’t have the opportunity to celebrate his birthday the day of, outside of a birthday livestream, but one night he forgoed dance practice to sit in the common space with his managers, his hair and makeup noonas, and a few idols he became friends with after running into them enough times at the company building. Wonwoo was the manager assigned to take care of his affairs, act as his PA, so they slept on the same floor, down the hall from one another. His other two managers—Sungmin and Jinho—slept on another floor. 

Chan had a very early wake-up time, so he limited himself to one bottle of beer while everyone else drank to their heart’s content. There was soft music playing from his smart TV, a coffee table crowded with namsul, white rice, samgyeopsal, and alcohol, and a giddy Chan that kept knocking into Wonwoo, flailing around, every time he laughed. 

The short of it was, the energy was different. Which made no sense, because Chan of the week prior was still the Chan of that day, only now legally seen as a man and not a boy. But, it was _there_. At one point Wonwoo excused himself to go into the kitchen, rummage through the fridge for another bottle of beer and maybe grab a glass of water—and while everyone was talking boisterously about something work-related, spurred into theatrics from intoxication, Chan slipped into the kitchen and stood beside him. 

Wonwoo was dressed comfortably in a plain, white tee and some black sweats, glasses perched on his nose, a dramatic contrast from Chan’s fluffed hair, fitted blouse, and jeans with a slit high on his left thigh. He was busy pouring some water into his glass from the faucet when Chan shifted close enough that their sides were pressed together, watching Wonwoo work as if it was a task less mundane than grabbing something to drink.

“Channie,” he said by way of greeting, huffing a laugh, “thirsty?” 

“Yeah,” Chan said absently, then took Wonwoo’s water from him as soon as he was done filling it, taking a few, big gulps. Wonwoo, a little dumbfounded, a tiny bit tipsy, stood there and watched his Adam’s apple bob with each swallow. Chan finished with a satisfied smack of his lips. 

Oh. ‘Kay. Snapping out of his trance, Wonwoo reached for the glass, only to be rebuffed when Chan moved his arm further out. “Hey,” Wonwoo whined, “don’t finish all the water, c’mon.” 

“You can pour more, dumbass,” Chan said with an eyeroll, then proceeded to try to polish it off. He was mid-sip when Wonwoo thought _fuck it_ , and snatched it from him; Chan followed with his mouth until he no longer could, his body halfway on top of Wonwoo’s. “You can pour _more_ , hyung,” he repeated, an extra dose of petulance to his tone. 

“Yes, _hyung_ , not dumbass. Respect your elders.” 

“Well,” Chan huffed, eyes still fixated on the glass, “respect your Channie and let him have your water.”

Your Channie. Wonwoo had a drink or two, yeah, but he was nowhere near drunk enough for the way his brain fizzled out then hotwired back to life. He’d never heard those words from Chan before. Never heard Chan refer to himself as Wonwoo’s _anything_ ; if nothing else, Chan always said Wonwoo was _his_. His manager. His hyung. His friend. Never that. And Wonwoo knew Chan long enough to know that he always chose his words carefully, wouldn’t speak if he didn't already know exactly what to say and how to say it. 

Wonwoo’s eyes snapped to Chan’s. 

The world seemed to turn upside down within that breath, as Wonwoo stared at Chan and it finally dawned on him that this was no longer the kid he’d been deathly afraid of being responsible for. Chan had grown into himself, jaw squaring, eyes and features settled in, finding their permanent place. This had been the same Chan for the past year, really; turning twenty didn’t suddenly flip a switch. Wonwoo just never thought to pay attention, considering how gradual the changes appeared when you were quite literally watching someone grow up. But it hit him then, under the harsh, fluorescent lights that played in Chan’s hair, his eyelashes. 

Wonwoo had been an adult since Chan met him, but the Chan Wonwoo knew was tiny and thirteen and looked straight into his eyes as if they were a window into Wonwoo’s consciousness. Seeing his fears for the future, his pathetic, disjointed excuse of a life up until then. How terrified he was to share living space with a kid, keep an eye on them, practically raise them because he was all they knew. That constant. 

And now... 

A roar of laughter jolted Wonwoo out of the stare (how long had they been standing there looking at one another? Too long to not be unusual, he was sure), and he promptly gave Chan the water back with a mumbled, “Have it,” before picking up his beer and returning to the common room. Chan let him go without another word. 

The rest of the night carried the same, uneasy air. Suddenly Wonwoo felt wholly out of place, like that moment shoved him out of a daydream and back into reality. Chan took his spot next to him again, but he didn’t drape himself over Wonwoo with every laugh anymore. And Wonwoo watched the festivities over the lip of his bottle, quieter than he had been before he walked away. 

It was almost not a surprise that Chan slipped into his room several hours later when everyone left, drunk and sleepy, to their respective floors. Wonwoo had taken his time with his shower, with brushing his teeth, the whole routine, and he had been under the covers with the lights off for half an hour before he heard his door clicking open. 

Light from the hallway splayed across the floorboards before the door was closed and the room darkened again. “Hyung?” 

The last time Chan had crawled into his bed was several years ago. When he was a teenager, acting so strong twenty-four seven that at times the rope stringing his resolve together had severed and he was a small, lost kid again. Terrified and missing his baby brother and his parents and his old friends, his old life. Those moments were few and far between, because Chan’s tenacity was unrivaled—but everyone needed comfort every once in a while. Especially children, in this circus of an industry. 

Wonwoo had been sympathetic to his fears, letting him snuggle up under the sheets with him and lull him to sleep, kneading gentle fingers into Chan’s scalp, his neck, unrolling those knots that he was way too young to be getting. He was maybe seventeen or eighteen the final time Wonwoo had to do that for him. 

But today he was twenty, and the air felt heavy and oppressive, Wonwoo’s ribs rattling with every breath. He didn’t respond, just continued to lie there under his duvet, curled up and facing the door, face hidden. 

“Hyung.” The voice was closer. This time Wonwoo gave a weak hum. 

The bed dipped and groaned under the weight of someone crawling onto it. Wonwoo kept still, almost rigid, as the blanket was pulled from where he tucked it and Chan crawled next to him, draping the duvet over him, too. Then Wonwoo was sharing space with mint conditioner, light tones of floral lotion, and Chan’s body, still radiating warmth from his shower. 

When he finally opened his eyes, Chan was already looking at him. Again, eyes shoveling through, straight into his consciousness. “Mm?” he hummed, sounding more tired and offput than he was. 

Even in the dark of Wonwoo's blanket-nest, he could see the heated flush of Chan’s cheeks, throat. His sleep tee was white and a size too big. Chan’s eyes scraped down Wonwoo’s torso, then back up into his eyes. “Last time I saw you, you were a string bean,” he extended a hand and squeezed at Wonwoo’s bicep. “Now you’re. This.” 

Right. He forgot he was wearing a sleeveless tee. Which wouldn’t normally be an issue, but Chan’s gaze was making him feel disarmed, inappropriately-dressed. “Last time you saw me,” Wonwoo parroted dumbly. “You see me everyday.” 

“You know what I mean.” Chan removed his hand only when Wonwoo tensed beneath his palm. “Last time I was here.” 

Silence fell where Wonwoo’s retort was supposed to be. None of this was the same. Chan of three, four years ago would immediately curl into Wonwoo’s side, under his arm, begging for affection not with his words but with his insistence. And Wonwoo would provide that for him, no matter how tired or annoyed he was, because Chan needed it. Everything he’d do was premeditated, given careful thought before he went through with the execution. If Chan sought reassurance, he _needed_ it. Chan needed Wonwoo, and Wonwoo’s job was to make sure he kept his head on straight, yeah, but Wonwoo the Manager and Chan the Idol were different; they had to be. Managers didn’t look at their clients and feel their chest inflate with affection, that wasn’t in the job description, and Wonwoo was more than just hi— 

“What happens now?” It was said in a voice that sounded like a poor imitation of Chan. It was too distant, too lost. Too thoughtless. 

But it was undeniably him. Damp hair, thighs filled out, features permanent. A man. 

Wonwoo, disoriented, watched Chan’s face contort in several different directions before Chan tipped his chin down and tugged aimlessly at a string on Wonwoo’s tee. 

“What happens now?” Wonwoo parroted, quiet and careful. 

“Now that I’m,” Chan started, then paused, “older.”

A return to silence. 

And. Yeah, that was. Yeah. Idols didn’t go through the same life changes everyone else did. Coming of age didn’t mean anything outside of being able to drink legally and do sexier concepts, didn’t symbolize the death of a childhood and the birth of a new decade. Chan’s childhood died at thirteen. Wonwoo could argue that his own didn’t die until he went into training at Kaleidoscope, because the same juvenile behaviors he enjoyed in high school he continued to do through university. (Except he had lectures to attend. Lectures to PC games to wanking off and back again.) 

“Well,” Wonwoo breathed. Chan’s eyes snapped up to Wonwoo’s, round and curious. “You can negotiate for higher pay now. No more curfews. And, um,” he racked his mind for other, practical things to list, something tangible and reassuring, “I... It doesn’t have to be a big deal, Channie. Nothing magical happens, unfortunately. You’re just... older.” Not reassuring at all, maybe. But Wonwoo decided that the safest option was to go with the truth. Chan’s truth. 

Not a whole lot would change. This would be Chan’s reality until the contract expired in another five years. And Chan would probably sign another contract, because what else could he do? He didn’t have a degree, zero job experience that would help him in the quote-unquote _real world_. His family were all in the entertainment industry, so there was no way they’d approve of him trying to escape (and Wonwoo didn’t think Chan _wanted_ to escape, anyway).

A new decade held no meaning. 

Chan tittered. “I’m not, like. Asking for _magic_...” he tapered off, brows slightly furrowing. 

Wonwoo realized once again that he was supposed to be responding now. The thing was, he didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t like Chan, fumbling and exasperated, showing up and not having a script prepared. Wonwoo learned to bounce off of that, match Chan’s temperament and cadence. This wasn’t in the rulebook. 

Chan’s eyes were softening, lips parted, as he stared unfalteringly at Wonwoo, and this... this wasn’t the same.

“There has to be more than that.” He almost sounded breathless. The fingers playing with Wonwoo’s shirt stopped in favor of pressing into Wonwoo’s abdomen, where he’d been building muscle tone over the past year or two. At least, trying to. And Wonwoo tried not to respond, but the touch through his thin tee had his muscles jump, accustomed to Chan’s touch, but not slow and cautious like this. Chan wasn’t _cautious_ with him. 

“Chan,” he breathed despite himself, the inflection tilting in a question. 

Chan watched his own hand as he dragged his fingertips down, the heat from his skin burning through the cotton. Wonwoo went stiff, heart starting to kick up, split between removing Chan’s touch or waiting to see what he was going to do next, _if_ he was going to do something next. 

“What else changes?” Chan mumbled. He was getting dangerously close to the waistband of Wonwoo’s briefs, leaving a trail of fire in his wake, and there was—there was no way. There was no way. There was absolutely no way he wasn’t just messing around, that he wasn’t even sure what he was doing to Wonwoo, what this gesture symbolized. That was just Wonwoo’s dirty mind getting in the way, after spending so much time watching and reading dirty things, so—

Wonwoo moved his free arm forward as if to stop Chan, but left it suspended halfway, hovering over his own hip bone. “What?” 

Chan was really getting too close now. Wonwoo wasn’t sure whether to look into his face or watch, confused and helpless and feeling a little too warm, suddenly. 

“That can’t be all that changes,” Chan was still doing that mumble that had Wonwoo’s brain doing that weird fizzle, flickering in and out like a laptop dunked in water, “right? There has to be more.” He caught Wonwoo’s stunned stare, his own expression careful, still, a return to the Chan Wonwoo knew, albeit under new territory. 

The very moment Wonwoo felt Chan’s fingers at his waistband he sprung into action, snatching Chan by his wrist and holding it up, pitching the blanket-tent higher over their heads. Chan’s arm was limp in his hold.

“Chan,” he repeated on a heavy exhale. He could feel his heart hammering in his jugular, blood whooshing between his ears. Because— 

Because just the very touch to his lower abdomen shouldn’t have sent his body aflame like that. His skin shouldn’t be tingling in aftershocks of Chan’s fingers, Wonwoo shouldn’t have let him get that far down, Wonwoo—Wonwoo shouldn’t feel a new wave of electricity disperse from his groin from how his own, spindly fingers overlapped around Chan’s wrist, holding it so firmly. He froze.

Did he look as frightened as he thought he did? Frightened, or panicky, or—or _turned on_ ? Oh, god, Wonwoo was turned on. Chan didn’t even touch _skin_ and he was turned on, heart pulsing against his ear drums, blood rushing from his head and down between his legs. It didn’t help that Chan was just watching him, unfazed, as if he expected Wonwoo to rebuff him. Who was breathing so hard? Was that him? Had it really been so long that he got hard from an _implication_? (Yes.) Was Chan doing what he thought he was trying to do? (Yes.) 

“Chan.” His voice quivered, pitched higher. Yeah, if Chan couldn’t already tell he was terrified, he knew then. 

A ghost of a smirk touched the corner of Chan’s mouth before he trained it to behave. “Is that all you can say? My name?” 

Wonwoo swallowed hard. His bicep was beginning to burn, and he realized only then that he was still holding Chan’s wrist. His tiny wrist that he could loop his fingers around so easily. His fingertips were pressed to his second _knuckle_ , for fuck’s sake. 

“Hello?” Chan said. “Anyone there?” 

Shit. He snapped from his reverie, releasing Chan’s hand and pulling his own back as if stung. Chan let it fall in the space between them. “You,” he said, then stopped to swallow, “is that all you came here to ask? About being an adult? At two in the morning?” 

“I can’t go to my hyung if I have questions?” There was Real Chan. Quick-witted, cheeky when he wanted to be. 

Wonwoo stammered. “Yes? But—” Fuck, he was still burning up. He squirmed, trying to subtly create more distance between their bodies. Chan, of course, caught on quickly and shimmied forward as Wonwoo moved back. “—It’s. You have schedules. In a few hours. You couldn’t have asked me in the van?” 

“You weren’t asleep.” 

“I could’ve been.” 

“Yeah, but you weren’t.” 

Alright. He wasn’t going to play this game at two in the morning. “Childish,” Wonwoo muttered, “for an alleged adult.” He took the chance to snatch his duvet off of Chan, leaving him bare on the mattress; Chan whined and tried to grab it back. “Go to bed, Chan. You may be able to live off of four hours of sleep, but I can’t.” 

Chan continued to tug fruitlessly. “Okay, okay,” he said, “I’ll act like an adult now. C’mon, hyung, at least let me see your face.” 

With a sigh, Wonwoo shoved the duvet down to his waist and blinked at him. “What?” 

“Hug me goodnight,” Chan said. He had that pout on, the obnoxious one that worked like a charm outside of these walls—but Wonwoo could tell when he was being genuine at this point, and his pout oozed mockery. No matter how nice his lips looked plumped out, pink and soft and—

Wonwoo screwed his eyes shut—counting to three like that would somehow help erase the filth inside his head—before he opened them and regarded Chan. “A hug,” he deadpanned. God, his throat was dry. “Can we not do this tonight? Please? I’m not in the mo—” 

And then Chan pushed himself forward, curling into Wonwoo’s chest, one arm slipping under Wonwoo’s at his waist. All the air huffed out of Wonwoo’s lungs in a punch, mind going fuzzy and light for a few seconds. Maybe ten or fifteen, he wasn’t keeping track, but none of this felt the same. Chan curling into his chest burned in the worst way, a different type of terrifying. It didn’t carry the same dread as the prospect of taking care of a thirteen year-old kid did. 

It was. It was being dunked into water, everything slowing down, fractionated light warm and overwhelming. It wasn’t Chan seeking comfort the only place he knew to receive it, pretending to be Lee Chan and not ‘Lee Chan’ if only for that night. This was—Chan was seeking comfort then, yeah, but it was stained, drops of food coloring twisting the white into little swirls of black. Or maybe Wonwoo was the one staining it, ruining something that was once pure, a little heart-breaking. 

Maybe. 

Wonwoo tentatively wrapped his arm around Chan at his shoulders, tugging him closer. And Chan burrowed his face into the junction of Wonwoo’s neck, hot breath against his sensitive skin another jolt of heat. “Hyung,” Chan whispered, voice so close to Wonwoo’s ear, Wonwoo feeling every single syllable like a lighter flicking over and over. He nuzzled further into Wonwoo’s neck, and—and oh god, Wonwoo could feel his lips, and his spine was going to melt with how viscerally he felt that, and Chan was going to feel his dick fattening, and— 

Without thinking twice about it, internal alarms screeching at him to remove and restrain Chan, get him away from his boner now now now, Wonwoo shoved Chan off. And Chan flopped onto his back with a shocked yelp. Before he could react, Wonwoo had a leg swung over him, and his wrists were being pinned to the mattress on both sides of his head, Wonwoo hovering over him and breathing hard. 

“Don’t,” Wonwoo gasped, then took a moment to breathe, albeit shakily. “What are you doing.” 

Chan was still giving him that wide-eyed stare, mouth slack in shock. 

“What are you trying to do?” Wonwoo pressured. “Chan. It’s not funny.” 

“Do you see me laughing?” Chan began to return to himself. Still, he remained pliant beneath him. 

Wonwoo furrowed his brows. “Okay,” he said, “if it’s not a joke, then what was that?” 

Then it was a stare-off. Chan schooled his face, melting away any residual surprise until Wonwoo couldn’t decipher what he was thinking anymore, unable to translate it into something rational. That always scared him, honestly, Chan’s ability to block Wonwoo out when he wanted to, those years of training and practicing expressions in the dance studio paying off for the worst. Because right now Wonwoo really, _really_ needed to understand this, to explain it away or call Chan out for lying or accuse _himself_ of being the weirdo and move past tonight. 

“Trust,” Chan said. His lids had fallen during their lapse in conversation, eyelashes fanning out across his cheeks, dark brown hair a halo against the backdrop of Wonwoo’s white bed sheets. 

Heinously beautiful. Shit. 

Wonwoo blinked, slow. His brain wasn’t working the way it should’ve. Whether that be from the two, measly bottles of beer he had, the sleepiness from an entire day of work, or that fuzzy haze he felt when he stood in the kitchen and appreciated how pretty Chan was even under harsh fluorescence. 

“I trust you,” he repeated, quiet and airy for no reason. Just because. 

Trust. 

It made less sense now. Wonwoo could understand Chan trusting him to have his professional interests at heart, could understand trust where it related to making sure he slept an appropriate amount of hours, or ate after an eight-hour dance practice, or getting him from point a to point b without crashing the van or swerving off a fucking cliff, or something. Wonwoo had been working with him for half a decade at that point; Chan had to trust him to do his damn job to still be there, celebrating his twentieth, sharing a living space. 

But, that was all it had been. Tending to a teen idol for his bi-weekly paycheck. Right? Surface-level stuff, outside of Wonwoo’s genuine affections for him. Trust couldn’t extend to this. If that was what Chan was referencing, there was—there was no way his trust extended that intimately. 

Wonwoo’s arms were getting tired again. He had his elbows locked, keeping his upper body a safe distance away from Chan’s, but. But, his biceps were beginning to fail him, and that was Wonwoo’s motivation for bending down, settling on his forearms and releasing Chan’s wrists. 

Chan watched quietly, unmoving. 

Wonwoo had to roll over now. He had to roll over. He had to stop bracketing Chan in with his arms and knees so Chan could leave. Wonwoo, _roll over_. 

“Trust,” Wonwoo said instead. He had no idea where Chan was looking because his own eyes were stuck on his mouth. “Me.” 

Chan gave a jolt of a nod. “Yeah.” 

He couldn’t pretend that that confession wasn’t turning him on. 

It was a mistake. A mistake that they never spoke of in the morning ( _later_ in the morning), nor anytime after then, but it wasn’t a mistake he could ever take back. Chan pushed up on his elbows to kiss him. And he saw it coming as if in slow motion yet let it happen anyway. He kissed Chan back, barely allowing a moment of just the gentle touch of their lips before licking past the seam and into Chan’s warm, velvet mouth. 

After that, everything flooded in. How sweet Chan’s tongue tasted; how arousing Chan’s fingers felt carding through his hair, scritching at his scalp; how much _heat_ Chan’s body radiated once Wonwoo lowered himself further, following Chan down so he didn’t have to strain his neck anymore. So many thoughts spun around, neither taking precedence over the other, while outside, in Wonwoo’s room, in Wonwoo’s bed, time seemed to slow. 

Chan wasn’t very experienced, but he was better than Wonwoo expected. Of course. Chan was good at everything he did, no matter if he’d done it one-hundred times or twice prior. That, or he was good at following directions, absorbing and filing it for future use—and that was what he did, letting Wonwoo take the lead, teach him, releasing pretty little sounds from inside his chest when Wonwoo used a little bit of teeth, worried his bottom lip before dipping back in for a taste. 

That was as far as they’d gone. Deep, sensual kisses, breaks spent panting and admiring one another. By the time they’d run out of enthusiasm, Chan’s cheeks were a rosy pink, lips red, wet. So beautiful ( _sexy_ , so fucking sexy) that Wonwoo’s guilt was kept at bay until it was three a.m., they’d fallen asleep beside one another, and Wonwoo’s five a.m. alarm jerked them awake. 

Guilt that remained for the entirety of the year, tapering off bit by bit, because Wonwoo was (is) a coward and a dumb ass and pretending it never happened was easier if that was the route Chan chose to go, too. 

Somehow, Chan trusted him. 

  
  


“It’s scary,” Chan is saying into the microphone, eyes round and a smile plastered onto his face as he looks to the radio host, “admitting you like someone. You’re putting yourself out there in such a vulnerable way. So, I wanted to convey this, but keep it hopeful, too,” he shifts his gaze to the camera now, smiling wider and baring his perfectly straight teeth, “for all the high schoolers out there listening.” He makes a fist, nods triumphantly. “ _Fighting_.” 

The radio host and his co-host coo, slapping a palm over their hearts. “I love that,” she says into her own microphone. “This comeback has been so fun. Your EP is—is like,” 

“Warm, lighthearted,” Radio Host supplies, “a nice change from the boy crush concept from the summer.” 

Chan grins at them, a carefully shy one, his eyebrows furrowing and eyes somehow going rounder. “Hyung, noona,” he sighs, then slaps a palm over his heart, too, “thank you. Honestly. We worked so hard on this EP, and I told our producers that I wanted to brighten somebody’s day, even if it’s just one kid out there, stressed over exams, or prepping for the seneung in December.” 

Another flurry of coos and noises dripping with endearment. Wonwoo refreshes his email app for the fifth time, resisting the urge to roll his eyes albeit he’s out of view of the camera, sitting in the corner. He listens absently as Chan continues to explain the return to his debut concept as if he were the one to make that executive decision, making sure there are no slip-ups or references to his scandal from either him or the hosts. Thankfully, everything has been going well, and they’re enamored with Chan like everyone else (Wonwoo has made the careful decision to not express his distaste at Chan being a guest on a program that covered the scandal when it was at its peak). 

But, if Chan holds any grudges, he doesn’t show it. He’s bright smiles and laughs hidden behind a hand, knocking his head back to cackle at jokes that are allegedly meant to be funny. His stylists were given explicit instructions to dress him in bright colors, oversized sweatshirts and hoodies that give him sweater paws, light wash jeans, sneakers, boots. Make him look like the everyday boy next door, makeup gentling his sharp edges, lobes bare of any earrings that dangle or draw attention. Adorable, sunny Lee Chan that his title track, _How do I Say?_ , expresses. 

Chan plays the part scarily well. 

“I talk with Jun hyung a lot, actually,” Wonwoo hears Chan say when he tunes back into the conversation. “He likes to give me advice and pep talks. We have dinner sometimes, too,” Chan takes a rehearsed pause, then breaks into another smile, this time demure. “And Seokmin hyung helps me with my vocal lessons whenever he has free time.” Another pause so the hosts can _aww_ and coo some more. Wonwoo can’t fight the eye roll anymore. “All of my hyungs in 8-teen have been so supportive! I’m so grateful for their help.”

Thankfully, the rest of the interview passes with no trouble. Not a word of Chan’s wrongdoings is said, and the host ends the segment with a commercial break. Wonwoo gets to his feet, tugging his slack’s legs down over his ankles. 

“Great show,” Co-Host—Yoonju, Wonwoo distantly remembers—flings off her headset with a sigh. 

Chan is already bowing before he stands, head ducked. “Thank you so much for this opportunity,” he makes sure to face both of them as he bobs at the waist, “Yoonju noona, Sungsoo hyung.” The first time he’d been on, they had to fight Chan on switching honorifics to something more familiar. 

(Any use of an honorific was promptly dropped once he and Wonwoo got back into the privacy of their car. _They’re some condescending fucks_ , Chan had spat, arms crossed, in the passenger seat. Wonwoo laughed for a good five minutes, somehow still deriving enjoyment from his character change after so many years.) 

“It was an honor,” Sungsoo says. “The listeners love when you’re on.” He makes eye contact with Wonwoo, whose lips spread into as polite a smile as he can muster. “Hopefully he can come back on for the next comeback?” 

Not in his jurisdiction. “I’ll relay the message,” Wonwoo says. “But you should also have—” 

“Jinho-nim’s email and number, right,” Sungsoo finishes. He doesn’t look very pleased about that. Jinho isn’t the best person to correspond with; Wonwoo knows from experience—but there isn’t anything he can do about that. Park daepyonim assigned Jinho to collaborate with his team to create Chan’s schedules; Sungmin is heavily involved with PR; and Wonwoo, yes, is the lackey that acts more as Chan’s personal assistant slash babysitter than anything else. Essentially, his hands are tied, and Sungsoo should know this by now.

Chan scales the perimeter of the table to stand by Wonwoo, closest to the door, and bows once more. “It would be a pleasure to guest on _Kpop Radio_ again.” He stands up straight again with a little hop, hair flopping around before it settles where the hair stylist noona parted it. 

“It’s a little nostalgic, huh?” Yoonju says. “The first time we had you on the show you had the same concept.” 

Chan still has the smile molded to his face, though there’s a quick quirk at the corner. “It is,” his voice remains peppy. “It’s a pleasure to be here again.” 

Wonwoo sees Yoonju’s own smile turn almost conspiratorial before she says, a little softly, “You’re twenty-one now, though, wow. Do you feel like you can still relate? To _How do I Say_?”

It’s a question that gives him pause, because... that’s one that’s already been answered, live, for an invisible audience. 

“Noona?” Chan’s voice is airy. 

Wonwoo figures it’s time to do his job; he can see where this is headed. “We have to get goin—” 

“Because you’re not afraid, right? To tell a girl you like her? Or, to show that yo—” 

“We’re going,” Wonwoo says, loud enough to obscure the end of her sentence, and sticks a hand out in front of Chan as if to shield him. Everyone but Chan shifts their predatory gazes to him. “His schedule is really busy today, so we thank you,” he bows, a jerky down and back up, glasses following the straight slope of his nose bridge, “and I’ll let Sungmin-nim know you’ll be contacting him. Thank you.” 

Chan is stiff in his hold as he drags him out of the recording room, out of the studio, then out of the back door of the building and into the parking lot. There are a few photographers already there waiting for them (how do these fuckers keep finding them?), so Wonwoo tries to cover Chan with his body as they rush to the van. 

“Obnoxious,” Wonwoo mutters, fastening his seatbelt in the driver’s seat. “Your guest appearances have been more beneficial for _them_ than us, but they still try this shit. Unprofessional.” He shoves the key into the ignition and turns it; the van purrs to life. And he’s about to head off, eyes flickering up to the rearview mirror, until he realizes that there’s an empty space where Chan’s groans of agreement normally are. 

An uneasy throb in his stomach, Wonwoo glances over at the passenger’s side. 

Chan hasn’t buckled his own seatbelt, is instead leaning back against the leather and staring aimlessly out at the street. His hands are limp in his lap, lips pulled into a straight line. Thankfully the windows are tinted, preventing the vultures from snapping pictures. It’s not too different from the look he’s been sporting in-between schedules, when no one is there to see him deflate (except Wonwoo, who barely counts, to be honest)—but at least Chan once made an attempt to respond to Wonwoo’s whining. 

Well. It does make sense. Chan hasn’t been directly confronted about his dating scandal in a few months; the most exposure he’s gotten to the hate has been on gossip sites, Naver articles. Wonwoo’s had to ban him from searching his name on social media after a particularly bad night, where he absorbed a flurry of insults and made himself sick. 

Literally. Chan danced for so long that he dropped to his knees and dry-heaved. 

Things haven’t improved. Statistically, there are less attempts at harassment and defamation, but none of that matters when Chan still sits and stares at nothing, as if life has been carved out of him and replaced with lead. 

Wonwoo unbuckles himself and leans over to grab Chan’s seatbelt, click it in for him. Chan’s eyes follow him. 

“Fuck them,” Wonwoo says quietly. He straps in again, shoves the gear into drive. “They don’t know anything. Bunch of hyenas.” 

Nothing. Not even a huff. Wonwoo somewhat expected that. 

“Alright,” Wonwoo breathes. 

He narrowly misses the paparazzi as he drives out onto the main road. 

  
  


Wonwoo knew Chan started experimenting with labelmates around fifteen years old (scarring himself for life when he happened to walk in on one too many encounters), before Chan took more and more risks, sneaking out in the dead of the night to hang out with _whoever_ . And Wonwoo was a little bit of a push-over (probably still is), wanting Chan to have some semblance of a childhood. That was part of the experience, no? Having sex, going out. He was terrified at first, and chose to stay up that first night he caught Chan to tell him, “If this is what you’re going to do, _please_ at least check in with me.”

The relief in Chan’s eyes when he obviously expected a lecture or threats à la Jinho or Sungmin made it worth it, the risk of being written up if it were for Chan’s sake. 

What Wonwoo didn’t approve of, however, was Choi Jaewon. Red. 

Red, another artist in the industry—a rapper popular for his quick-tongue and disses over hard beats—signed to a company that primarily featured more... _unconventional_ musicians. And Wonwoo had to wonder what Red, a twenty-eight year old man, had anything to do with a sixteen year old pop singer. After finding pictures Chan had taken with Red and a woman he couldn’t identify in his phone, Wonwoo did some research; Red was a man with a litany of tattoos on every centimeter of visible skin: his arms, legs, neck, face, _head._ The man had tattoos on his _head_ , only visible whenever he shaved all his hair off. Okay. 

Then, Instagram led Wonwoo to discover that the mystery woman was Kim Yubin, owner of _Quartz Tattoo Parlor_. There were a few other pictures of women on his profile, too: Wang Feifei, a backup dancer for PS Entertainment; Ha Yukyung, a bottle girl for _Club Aura_ with the biggest eyes Wonwoo had ever seen; and there was a man that popped up a lot, too, a man that Wonwoo had seen briefly in some of Chan’s photos. Jay Park. He seemed to be a club promoter, or some guy that was addicted to going to clubs, as every picture he had on his profile was him posing in VIP sections with girls tucked under his arms, grinning ear to ear and flashing gaudy, gold teeth. 

The point was that Red didn’t _seem_ to be a predator. Not for sixteen year old boys, at least. Still, Wonwoo wasn’t keen on how Chan had been changing since he began talking to Red via Instagram, then on KaTalk, and then in person. Wonwoo had begrudgingly accepted Chan sneaking out to explore his sexual side with labelmates— _peers_ —but Chan going to tattoo parlors and clubs with adults, as a teenager, was crossing way too many lines. 

That, and if Jinho, Sungmin, or, god forbid, Park daepyonim, found out that Chan had been sneaking out to hang out with them under Wonwoo’s watch, he definitely would be out of a job in under twenty-four hours flat. 

A little sleuthing (also known as, going through Chan’s KaTalk while Chan was busy performing on stage, since he had the passcode to Chan’s phone in case Chan’s parents or anyone else important tried to contact him) had given the answer to what Wonwoo feared. 

**Choi Red**

Alright we gonna be at quartz till midnight. U able to meet us there or we gotta let u into fire? [2:33 a.m.] 

**Lee Chan**

Prolly gonna have to let me in. got dance practice until midnight. Then gotta wait for manager to go to sleep. Save the flask for me kkkkk [2:41 a.m.] 

**Choi Red**

You got it, boss kk [2:43]

Yubin says she misses you so you better come or else kkkk [2:50 a.m.]

**Lee Chan**

Tell her i wanna come so bad

Ive been so fuckin stressed [3:11 a.m.]

oh and

You or jay hyung bringing bars [3:12 a.m.]

**Choi Red**

What kinda q is that pup 

yeah [3:20 a.m.]

That was all he needed to see. Wonwoo flicked out of the chat before he did something reckless, his heart rate spiking so quickly that his vision momentarily blurred to cotton balls. Their chats had gone back as far as months after Chan debuted, and with a sick twist of dread stacking up in his gut, Wonwoo had to wonder how long Chan had been drinking, partying, asking for _bars_. How long had Wonwoo not known? Was he _that_ inept at his job? 

It was difficult to keep it together for the rest of the day. Chan noticed something was off and started hounding him, begging to know if anything had occurred while he wasn’t present; but Wonwoo powered through schedules like a professional, patiently waiting for one a.m. to invite himself into Chan’s room. He had an entire script ready and everything, a slew of questions and demands that he tried to word as calmly as he could muster. _What does Red want to do with you? You do know it’s strange for a twenty-eight year old to hang out with a teenager, right? Has he done anything to you? What can I do to help you?_ Yet it all flew straight out the window once he was standing in Chan’s room, door still ajar, and laid eyes on a fully-dressed Chan. 

He was wearing all black—black tee shirt, black skinnies with square holes in both thighs, black ankle boots. Eyes lined in kohl, lips a peachy tint, Chan already had one foot out of the apartment at that point. And he leaped in shock, turned to stare at Wonwoo with his jaw slack, as the first words to come out of Wonwoo’s mouth were, “ _Bars_? Bars, Chan? You’re taking bars and drinking flasks of—of alcohol, or—or liquor, or whatever—with a grown _man_?” 

Not the greatest delivery, though Wonwoo felt completely out of his depth, scolding a child he had no connection to other than under the parameters of his contract. 

This wasn’t in the contract. 

Chan stood rigid in fear, managing to look even more shocked at Wonwoo’s outburst. He was mid-reach for his phone as it sat face down and charging on his nightstand. 

Adrenaline had Wonwoo shaking, and he had the distant thought to wonder if it was visible, the tremors in his fingertips, his knees buckling. If he looked as terrified as he felt, a twenty-four year old having to act twice his age. 

“Chan,” Wonwoo said, more harsh and in a deeper timbre than he tried for. 

That seemed to snap Chan into action; he let his arm fall, hands balling into fists, relaxing, then balling up again. “Hyung,” he breathed. His expression was stuck in-between shock, fear, hints of anger. And—angry at what? Wonwoo had no fucking idea, but there wasn’t enough anger for the both of them, and Chan had no fucking right to be upset. Not when he was sneaking out with creeps, going to sleazy parties and doing god knows what with said creeps. 

“Red, Yubin— _whoever_ ,” Wonwoo bit out, “have they done anything to you? Chan—did they? Did they touch yo—” 

“No,” Chan blurted. He kept flexing his hands, one now running through his hair. “No.” 

His throat was fucking burning. He wasn’t equipped for this. This wasn’t in the contract. Wonwoo swallowed hard. “How long. How long that—that you? The bars?” 

Chan hesitated at this. Then his eyes turned glassy, fingers still carding through his fringe, over and over and over. “Not long?” Maybe Wonwoo gave a look of enraged disbelief, not able to control his expression anymore, but Chan hurried to continue, “Onl-only like twice. A couple times. Hyung, really, I don’t—I haven’t been—”

“Even though I was putting my job at risk,” Wonwoo said, startling Chan to silence, “I wanted you to be a kid.” He couldn’t stop fucking _shaking_ ; his voice quivered with it, resolve bending the more terrified Chan appeared, “and I was fine with you going out if it—it was with another kid in the company. At the _dorms_ . But, adults, Chan? Drinking and partying with grown people that should know better? That should,” he paused to breathe, anger washing back over him, “that should be in _prison_ for this?” 

“They’re my friends, hyung.” Thankfully, Wonwoo’s voice wasn’t the only one crackling in and out. Chan looked closer to tears, ears flushing red. “Please. They’re my only friends. I’ll—we can stop going to clubs, we can just hang out at the par—” 

“No,” Wonwoo said. “Absolutely not. This could destroy your career, you know that? This could. I’m fine with… _this_ staying within the label,” he flapped a vague hand around, “but, I can’t in good conscience let you hang out with these people. You understand that, right?” 

Wonwoo knew the career line would be effective, and despite the fucked situation, the predators that Chan was convinced had his best interests at heart, that were his _friends_ , Wonwoo still felt the lump build in his throat as Chan finally unraveled and started to cry. He immediately stepped up to him, body snapping into action on instinct, and tugged Chan into a hug that he fought and gravitated to simultaneously, face against Wonwoo’s chest, arms between them to cover his eyes. 

And. 

Wonwoo couldn’t entirely blame him. He was a sixteen year-old with skewed ideas of what it meant to be a kid. Working since he was a grade schooler (earlier, if family performances counted), his career heavily dependent on public reception, on numbers, on how well of a circus monkey he could be. And being in close proximity with adults, _strangers_ , Chan had to carve himself a place in an industry that would readily suck him dry and still spit in his face after. 

The first people that showed interest in who he was, that were not associated with the company, Chan clinged to. Wonwoo couldn’t blame him. 

He was _sixteen_. Wonwoo at sixteen was sitting through lectures in a classroom, playing Tekken with his friends after school let out instead of going to the study hall; Chan’s learning was in the dance studio, at vocal lessons, contract termination looming over his head if he slacked off even a little. 

What the fuck did he know?

“It’s okay,” Wonwoo whispered into his hair, trying his damnedest not to cry, too, “it’s okay, Channie.” He massaged fingers into Chan’s neck, unraveling the knots that he was too young to even have.

That wasn’t the end of the conversation. The morning brought heavier words, demands for Chan to cut contact with Red and his entourage, demands that Chan weepily accepted. Wonwoo fucking _hated_ being the bad guy, having to use the threat of alerting Sungmin if Chan didn’t wisen up. He hated that he couldn’t just be a friend, that he had to be another weight on Chan’s chest. 

The toughest pill to swallow was accepting that no matter what, Wonwoo would always be manager first, everything else second.

  
  


The instant they’re on the set of _Inside Idol_ , Chan set up with his mic and done greeting the hosts with bows and a megawatt smile, the Chan from the van vanishes into thin air. Wonwoo, arms crossed, watches with the staff behind the cameramen, enthralled with Chan’s sudden high spirits, his boisterous laughter and hand claps everytime one of the hosts cracks a joke that requires laughter. Then he’s introducing the backstory to his title track, expertly going from staring into the camera with the red ‘ _recording’_ dot, to the three hosts, and then back again. 

Host one, a petite woman that appears to be in her thirties, is prompted to segue into asking Chan to dance the chorus and killing part for _How do I Say?_ , and Chan’s smile stretches, all pink gums and white teeth, hands clasped beneath his chin while he bobs in practiced excitement. “I’d love to,” he cheers, projecting his voice, “it’s supposed to be the section that symbolizes the burst of confidence, the boy finding out how to admit his crush to the girl.” 

Host two re-introduces the song—“Here’s Lee Chan with his newest comeback, _How do I Say?_!”— then cues the music, and Chan leaps into action, executing each move with the power and technique that he’s known for. It’s convincing enough that Wonwoo almost forgets that Chan’s running on four hours of sleep (two if he counts the fact that this is over a two-day timeframe); Chan had taken a few caffeine pills on the ride, which shouldn’t have kicked in quite yet. But, here he is, earning claps and cheers from the hosts and some staff members as he animates and flows across the studio space. 

Chan’s beautiful. He’s always been. Twenty-one year old Chan is more than beautiful, though. He’s alluring, body carved into its peak form, thin waist, muscular thighs, ass rounded and pert in those tight jea—

Wonwoo rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, fighting off the shudder that rolls down his spine from the base of his skull. Shit. There’s something fucking wrong with him, is what this is. Lack of sexual attention, always being too tired to wank off to porn, _something_ . Chan is running on four (two) hours of sleep, for fuck’s sake, popping caffeine pills and sitting limply in carseats, yet here is Wonwoo, _sexualizing_ him like the other old, sick fucks that show up to his fanmeets begging for his hand in marriage. 

He keeps his eyes shielded until Chan finishes, but it’s mission impossible to not stare as Chan is tasked to dance to popular girl groups songs. Some intentionally sexy, some cute, some with complicated moves that rival Chan’s own choreographies. No matter what’s thrown at him, Chan does his best, giggling at himself when he momentarily forgets a move. Beautiful, nonetheless. 

Such a nice bodyline. 

Shit. 

Chan’s _enment_ pre-recording doesn't go any better. The school uniform costume he has to wear should be a deterrent (and it is, mostly), but Wonwoo remains mesmerized at how easy he makes this look, even after so many years of watching him perform. His voice doesn’t waver as he dances, the coat and plaid slacks are tailored to accentuate the slopes of his body, and he’s a silk drape in wind, bending and twisting with elegance, a poetic oscillation of waves. He flutters his eyelashes and smiles softly during the gentle sections, as rehearsed, then he’s narrowing them and grinning during others. _Hunting dog_ , his fans dubbed the expression. Can’t be closer to the truth. 

Once Chan finishes with his final pose, hands two fists to tuck under his chin, a (successful) try at aegyo, and confetti is flittering around him like golden snowfall, he gives the camera an unabashed, hopeful smile, all teeth and rounded eyes. A callback to the innocence of his teens. He holds that for however long the camera remains recording, shoulders and chest jostling with exaggerated breathing. 

One, five, ten seconds pass of silence. Then, the eventual flick of the red light to grey cuts the marionette strings, and everything—the glitter of promise in his irides, his back, rod-straight, the fists holding his head up—shuts off with it. 

⬳

**NETIZENS REACT TO LEE CHAN’S ‘HOW DO I SAY?’ FINAL EMNET STAGE**

Read more... 

  1. Does he think we’re stupid? we know you can confess to girls chan kkk 
  2. This is pathetic. Just admit that you would rather go clubbing with sluts than be an idol and give up the charade
  3. He looks so cute!! channie ive been a colour since 2016!! 
  4. His company knows he’s not as popular as he used to be so theyre reusing old concepts kkk frauds 



⬳

**LEE CHAN RECORDS 378,000 ORDERS FOR HIS EP ‘COURAGE!’**

Read more… 

Promotions wrapping up, KALEIDOSCOPE Entertainment released the sales for Lee Chan’s most recent EP, _Courage_ ! The number has reached 378,000, almost 150,000 less than his summer album’s sales. This is Chan’s second worst comeback since debut; _Beautiful Forms_ sold 755,000 albums during the promotion period, and his late 2019 album, _Colours_ , sold a record-breaking 894,000. 

_Courage_ ! follows after Chan’s dating scandal June of this year, when he was snapped snuggling with a woman now identified as Kim Yubin, a tattoo artist and owner of _Quartz Tattoo Parlor_ , in the streets of Hongdae. KALEIDOSCOPE Entertainment failed to comment on future plans. 

[+ 984, - 3] im not surprised kkk that’s what happen when you lie 

[+ 183, - 9] he probably has a girlfriend but is here pretending to be too shy to ask a girl out 

[+ 602, - 89] kk seungkwan oppa is gonna take his throne 

⬳

Who knows how many times Chan continued to see his ‘friends’ before Dispatch finally caught him. Wonwoo didn’t even bother to ask; he was too disappointed to muster up the energy for an interrogation. And it wouldn’t have made a difference, anyway. It certainly didn’t as Wonwoo sat in Park daepyonim’s office and was threatened with permanent dismissal. It didn’t matter as Chan bawled in his bed, head tipped back against the headboard and arms clutching a pillow as if that was his last thread of hope. 

A lesson learned the hard way. An implied statement that the fans whisper with every comment, every criticism: don’t dare pretend that you’re a normal person unless it’s in a way we can tolerate. If you step out of bounds, beyond these pre-existing parameters, we will make sure your career tumbles like a house of cards. No matter how high up you climb, how infallible you believe yourself to be, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re standing on stilts, teetering precariously with every little breeze. 

It’s all a mirage. Hot air and refracted light that has the road glimmer like it’s paved in gold.

And Wonwoo, shaken up from the threat of losing his job, the threat of returning to the parents that told him he was wasting his youth and smarts on a ‘bottom feeder career’, sat on the edge of Chan’s bed, watched him come undone, and still knocked days, hours, minutes off of the bomb implanted inside his chest. 

  
  


Chan trusted him.


	3. come be in the sky with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wonwoo didn’t blame Chan for interpreting him as disposable. Wonwoo thought the same. Allegedly, it was temporary—his managerial duties, the terms of his contract, and the job itself. 
> 
> They both held low expectations of one another. Within the two years spent training to replace the previous manager, he’d seen Chan at most three times; and by ‘see’, the first time was an impromptu introduction when Sungmin was giving Wonwoo a tour of the dance studio. Chan was brief and polite, as training would always be more important than greeting a man that had a ninety-five percent chance of resigning within a year. It couldn’t have been more than three minutes that Sungmin beckoned over a tiny kid with eyes bold enough to carve straight through Wonwoo’s pupils and take a peek into his soul. 
> 
> That was what Wonwoo remembered, if nothing else: Lee Chan and that paralyzing stare, at odds with the smile stretched across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why give up before we try?  
> Feel the lows before the highs,  
> Clip our wings before we fly away (fly away),  
> I can't say I came prepared,  
> I'm suspended in the air,  
> Won't you come be in the sky with me?  
> — _unthinkable_

Wonwoo didn’t blame Chan for interpreting him as disposable. Wonwoo thought the same. Allegedly, it was temporary—his managerial duties, the terms of his contract, and the job itself. 

They both held low expectations of one another. Within the two years spent training to replace the previous manager, he’d seen Chan at most three times; and by ‘see’, the first time was an impromptu introduction when Sungmin was giving Wonwoo a tour of the dance studio. Chan was brief and polite, as training would always be more important than greeting a man that had a ninety-five percent chance of resigning within a year. It couldn’t have been more than three minutes that Sungmin beckoned over a tiny kid with eyes bold enough to carve straight through Wonwoo’s pupils and take a peek into his soul. 

That was what Wonwoo remembered, if nothing else: Lee Chan and that paralyzing stare, at odds with the smile stretched across his face. 

The next two times were at conferences, where Chan and his parents sat on one side, Wonwoo, Sungmin, Jinho, and Park on the other, to further discuss the stipulations of their contract and the parts they played in fostering Chan’s career. It was unnerving, almost, how Chan wore the same face his father did despite the thirty-plus age gap between the two—sharp, bold eyes, stern-faced and sitting in the office chairs with perfect posture. Only when his parents left did Chan’s spine curl in, shoulders slope down. 

But if Wonwoo was disposable, Chan was, too. Idols had a shelf life of anywhere from one to five years, if they were lucky; Wonwoo knew this from his childhood obsession with girl groups and while he was learning how to be a competent manager at Kaleidoscope. That, and Wonwoo was under the impression that while the plans were for Chan to have a solo debut, he’d inevitably be shoved into a boy group as their center or lead dancer. That’s what Jinho kept repeating, at least, and Wonwoo knew that he and Park had separate conferences of their own. 

It didn’t happen. Nor did Wonwoo’s plans to stay for two years at most. Nor did Wonwoo’s erroneous belief that Chan would fade into obscurity after a comeback or two, then later resign and be out of Wonwoo’s life for good. He had a lot of preconceived notions. 

Chan had a lot of walls up. He never gave much of himself to Wonwoo for the first two years, always hiding behind the falsities that he gave everyone else. In front of the cameras and in front of mixed company, Lee Chan was _Lee Chan_ , sweet and innocent, but pouring over with energy and excitement, always smiling and bright-eyed. The picture boy for youth, bringing a new edge to an era where other idols fell into the boy-crush or girl-crush trend. Perfect person, perfect place, perfect time. Wonwoo could appreciate that kind of work ethic. 

Their first year spent together was a lot of feeling one another out. Wonwoo was terrible at conversation and worse at conversation with kids, and—to be frank—Chan scared the shit out of him. It was like interacting with someone that had the soul of a grown man trapped inside the vessel of a teenager, the way he could switch personalities at the snap of a finger and maintain it for days. _Weeks_. All the times Wonwoo would catch Chan mumbling rehearsed interview questions under his breath during drives or in the kitchen of the dorms. All the times Wonwoo would come fetch him from the dance studio and see him sitting in front of the mirror _practicing facial expressions_ . Just practicing, and not only for his choreographies, but for _everyday conversation_. (This was the stretch of time that Wonwoo had been convinced that Chan had a personality disorder. Sociopathy, or something. It feels so fucking stupid now, but he did, he believed that.) 

A year plus post-debut, during a five a.m. drive to his pre-recording schedule, Chan was sipping on coffee in the passenger seat while scrolling through his phone. He’d taken an early morning shower, and his brown hair sat in damp rivulets around his face. 

“Does Jihye noona know you’re showing up with wet hair?” Wonwoo asked, sleepy eyes trained on the road. 

Chan swallowed a mouthful of coffee before saying, “Yes, hyung, I told her when I got up this morning,” he tapped at his phone with his thumb, “but I’m sure she’d be happy to know you care about lessening her workload.” 

Something about the cadence in which Chan responded—a single, flat tone that sounded too casual to be from someone running on a couple hours of sleep—spurred Wonwoo on. “Aren’t you exhausted?” 

There was a brief pause as Wonwoo edged up to a stoplight, turn signal clicking in between their silence. He didn’t bother looking over at Chan while he had the chance, admittedly not wanting to see the expression he wore. Always so careful, tamed from years of experience.

Chan shook his coffee, and the ice rattled around inside his thermo. “Yes,” he finally said, “hence why I’m drinking coffee, hyung.” He spoke with purposeful hesitance, slowing his words as if Wonwoo was asking a stupid question and he wanted to remain patient. Wonwoo was another obstacle to pass. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Wonwoo said. The street light flicked to green, and he made his turn. It was still dark outside, the roads empty and quiet. “I mean. This act. It’s weird,” now he took a quick glance at Chan’s profile, “I feel like I’ve been watching a one year performance.” 

This is what seemed to throw Chan off, and while the act was weird, Wonwoo realizing that this was the first time that he stunned Chan into silence was even weirder. Even when Chan was tossed invasive or uncomfortable questions, the pause he’d take felt rehearsed, another choreography to perform off the stage. And that was it: Chan navigated throughout the world on a permanent stage, his guard never falling, never bothering to slow down because everything bent at his will. 

Wonwoo included. 

Wonwoo had to look away to drive, but he could see Chan’s eyes still on him from quick glances at the rearview mirror. 

It couldn’t have been more than twenty seconds that passed before Chan reacted, though in Lee Chan standards, twenty seconds of not responding to a question posed to him equated to five minutes. A lapse in judgement that deserved scolding, supplemental PR lessons. 

Finally, though, he opened his mouth to speak, his eyes trained on Wonwoo, phone screen dark from inactivity. “I am.” His voice wavered, nearly a whisper. “Are you?”

Not a question he expected to receive in return—because that meant Chan thought of Wonwoo, and, up until this point, Wonwoo wasn’t sure Chan genuinely thought about anyone else in this profession at all. Not in a way that humanized them past their utility. 

Wonwoo turned into the back parking lot of the _Enment_ studio, slowing into a parking spot closest to the door. There were several other black vans surrounding them, staff members carrying inside equipment, plastic-wrapped costumes, makeup caddies. Jihye was smoking by the door while talking to Sungmin, who also had a cigarette hanging from his lips. 

Wonwoo turned the car off, then turned to face Chan. Chan hadn’t looked away. “Honestly?” Wonwoo said. 

“Honestly,” Chan repeated. 

“All the fucking time.” Then Wonwoo unbuckled his seatbelt and pushed his door open. 

They weren’t able to pick the conversation back up until much, much later that day, and from there the conversation never ended. It was always set aside to be returned to at their next, private opportunity, sometimes in the dance studio late at night, sometimes right before bed, sometimes when they drove alone together to schedules. 

“That’s the beginning of the end,” Chan had said another time, Wonwoo sat on the floor with his back against the wall, typing emails on his computer as Chan practiced, “when you give up the performance.” 

Wonwoo’s eyes flicked up over the screen. He watched Chan amble over to slump beside him, a heap of sweat and panting. “What?” 

“You asked me if I get exhausted. I’m saying that if I slip, I’ll fall.” Chan lolled his head to consider Wonwoo’s uncertain gaze. “Everyone I trained with is falling because they think the performance stops when the cameras turn off. But when you’re a public figure, it never does.” 

He didn’t know how to tackle this, so he sat and stared as Chan took a few gulps from his water bottle. 

“It’s exhausting,” Chan continued, “sure. Then you do it long enough that it kinda becomes you.” 

“But it hasn’t become you,” Wonwoo said. “You’re still acting. For me, for,” he stammered to think, “for your supposed friends, for your dad—” 

“Supposed friends,” Chan laughed at this. “They’re my labelmates, hyung.” 

Wonwoo considered him. “See? That’s what I mean. You separate everyone into boxes. Even yourself.” 

“You have to trust someone to be their friend.” Now Chan stood, his self-given break over in a flash. “It’s not smart to trust your competition, hyung. They’re competition. D’you think they called me their friend when I won five music shows last comeback and they won zero?” 

Silence. Wonwoo’s lips were parted as if he wanted to respond, but nothing came. 

Chan gave him a smile, one that twisted his face into something ugly. “If you do, you’re pathetically naïve for a twenty-six year old man.” 

Wonwoo wasn’t that naive. But, he didn’t enjoy the way his stomach lurched, nor the way Chan stood there and smiled down at him, alone. On his solo stage, distant and without anyone he could trust. Disillusioned at sixteen years old. Fuck. 

Another day, Chan was backstage getting his makeup done by Jihye, and he tittered at something on his phone. Wonwoo stood nearby rattling out the most recent schedule Sungmin snagged—a guest appearance on some variety show, brand ambassador performances and interviews—before faltering when it was clear Chan wasn’t paying attention anymore. The room was crowded with staff members, all scurrying around to make sure Chan and his labelmates were being prepped and ready in time for their call time; it was overwhelming, honestly, and Wonwoo was already feeling annoyed and anxious at the loud conversation, metal clinking and objects rattling around him.

“Chan, this isn’t like you,” Wonwoo snapped. “Pay attention, please, because I don’t want to repea—” 

“Look what my dad sent me,” Chan interrupted. He blindly raised his phone to hand it to Wonwoo, not able to move around too much with Jihye applying light contour to the hollows of his cheeks. “Funny, right?” 

Wonwoo was about ready to throttle Chan into another dimension, but he snatched the phone from him on reflex and focused on the screen. A KaTalk conversation thread greeted him. 

**appa**

Saw the show this morning.

I don’t know if it’s the weight gain, but your stamina is worse. You need to either get back in that studio and re-learn how to dance and sing at the same time or lose 4kg. 

That would do wonders for your knees and your lung capacity. You’re singing like you have something on your chest. [4:52 a.m.] 

Wha—What? Wonwoo had to read the messages again to understand what he was looking at, because by the way Chan laughed he thought it’d be something genuinely funny. 

“This is funny?” he asked before he could filter the thought and tuck it away. 

“Yeah,” Chan tittered. He took the phone back when Wonwoo extended it to him. “My leash is 200 kilometers long. Funny.” 

There were only four, five seconds to process the history behind that statement before a woman was banging loudly on the door, shouting, “Three minutes to call time, c’mon, c’mon!” and Jihye gave Chan an approving pat to symbolize his release from the stylist chair. 

Wonwoo later ruminated over it at the side stage, arms crossed, music loud enough to rattle his teeth where he stood. He never expected Chan’s level of success, yeah, and albeit he was in close proximity to the kid every second of every day, it was still unusual to be out and about and hear Chan’s music, or see Chan’s face plastered somewhere, or—the most unusual—catch one of Chan’s music videos being projected on a big screen in the city. Unusual and surreal. There was Lee Chan, draped in expensive clothes, painted in pretty makeup, singing and dancing and looking like a natural during the B-rolls. Because that was Lee Chan, but that wasn’t _Lee Chan_. Not the way Wonwoo saw him. 

What did his father see when he found his son’s face hanging in a store window? On the side of a bus? On television, advertising a clothing brand, drinks? Did he look at Chan and see what Wonwoo saw? How does a father witness his son’s insane success and yet send him something like that? 

Wonwoo fished Chan’s phone out of his pocket, holding onto it at Chan’s request, and looked at the notifications. Three more messages from ‘appa’. He could hear it ringing inside his head, over and over for the rest of the performance, as he stared at the words on Chan’s screen. A leash two-hundred kilometers long. 

“Has he ever congratulated you?” 

It was half-past midnight when Wonwoo could get Chan alone. He was practicing long after his backup dancers left him at the studio, hair dripping with sweat. 

Chan didn’t need to ask who. Laughing, again as if Wonwoo had actually cracked a joke, Chan bared straight, white teeth, eyes curving around it. He continued to carry out the moves to an invisible song. “He doesn’t celebrate expectations, hyung.” 

Another quote that followed him to bed. More about the flabbergasted lilt to it than anything else, the emphasis on ‘expectations’ heavy on Chan’s tongue. That wasn’t Chan’s voice that he heard.

That sentence was borrowed. 

Chan continued dole out tiny pieces about himself, a little more with every passing month, though Wonwoo wasn’t dumb enough to believe that that meant Chan trusted him. Even as Wonwoo moved further and further away from his expiration date of one year, he’d never held onto hope that Chan would ever trust him. Wonwoo was certain Chan didn’t trust his own parents. 

Those pieces were bargaining chips, maybe, so that Wonwoo could give Chan something in return. Maybe Chan was lonely too, and seeing that Wonwoo was the person he saw the most, Chan was desperate for some kind of connection. Wonwoo was his best shot at keeping sane, because no matter how close he felt with his labelmates—Wen Junhui, Lee Seokmin, Boo Seungkwan, Yoon Jeonghan, whoever else—competition would forever be the mountain that sits in-between. 

All possibilities that Wonwoo considered. 

“Do you think you’ll ever run out of steam?” Wonwoo asked, one point five years in. Chan was gulping down water in their kitchen at two in the morning, and Wonwoo had gotten up from bed, restless and somehow unable to sleep. He stood at the open door frame, leaning against the jamb. “There has to be a limit to how long you can keep performing until you fall.” 

Chan turned away from the faucet to look at Wonwoo. His brown hair was mussed, the sleep shirt that once clung to his waist now hanging like a curtain, his lips wet. Shadows played in his face from the harsh fluorescence, painting a picture to remain whenever Wonwoo closed his eyes.

“I was born to perform,” he said. 

And that was that.

  
  
  


“They’re easy enough to train,” Soonyoung is saying around a mouthful of galbi, “but only to execute the moves, y’know? There’s no passion. They think they’re there to look pretty and nothing else,” he pauses to chew open-mouthed, bleached eyebrows furrowing, “which is _true_ , kinda, but you won’t get very far with that alone.” He wags his chopsticks around before picking up another piece of a sizzling rib strip.

Wonwoo waits until he’s swallowed his cabbage leaf before he answers, “Right.”

These moments are few and far between. Chan is busy recording a dance cover with Junhui in the studio, nothing that requires Wonwoo to be present, so he finally took up Soonyoung’s offer (pleas) to have dinner. _Baekjeong_ was the unanimous decision; Wonwoo was craving meat and Soonyoung would eat Korean barbecue every day of his life if he could. And he can, technically. 

“Anyway,” Soonyoung says, “how was today? Busy?” 

Wonwoo shrugs up a shoulder, portioning himself out some rice from the bowl sitting between them. “Everyday is busy. Chan had an appointment for laser hair removal first thing this morning, so I drove him there. Then eyebrow waxing, a nail appointment, y’know,” another shrug, “maintenance.” 

“Maintenance,” Soonyoung parrots. There’s no malice to his tone, only curiosity. 

It sounds odd to put it that way, now that Wonwoo thinks about it. Like he’s taking a car to the shop, getting it polished and ready to pass inspection. And as… objectifying as it sounds, that isn’t too far from the truth. Under Park’s instructions, enforced by Jinho, Chan was to quote-unquote ‘spruce up’ and try a slightly different look. That meant a haircut that framed his face well, another hair appointment to touch-up his roots, keep the chestnut brown color even, and other little things that has him look young. 

Well. Younger. 

“Daepyonim said it’d be important for future schedules,” Wonwoo continues, then takes a sip from his cup of water. “I haven’t been told what yet, though. We have a meeting tomorrow morning to have that discussion, I think.” 

“Ooh, scary.” Soonyoung does a shimmy in his seat. 

The waitress comes by with their yangnyeom tongdak, and the two thank her before she smiles and scurries off to another table. _Baekjeong_ is fairly busy on a Tuesday afternoon, almost every grill occupied with families, business partners, partners. Despite wanting a drink, Wonwoo turned down Soonyoung’s suggestion to split a bottle of soju between the two of them; he has to drive back to the company building and take Chan to the dorms after, both of which require him to be sober and alert. 

Though he doesn’t _want_ to be sober and alert. He wants to wallow in self-pity for at least one evening, pretend that he doesn’t have familial obligations or that he’s disappointed his parents for the nth time when he called and said—

“Were you able to get off for chuseok this year?” Ever the mind reader, Soonyoung watches Wonwoo stare absently at where his phone sits on the table, face-up since his notifications are on silent. Perhaps the tired twist to his face gave it away. 

Wonwoo gives a tiny jolt of a head shake. He nudges a piece of fried chicken around the plate with his chopsticks. “I called my mom last night and told her I didn’t have time to drive to Changwon and back.” That, and the idea of sitting through what’s meant to be a celebration whilst his parents continue to treat him like a waste of resources, or a failed experiment, has his lungs burning like they’ve been set out on the grill. His presence isn’t needed, anyway; they have Bohyuk to fawn over. 

Soonyoung sucks his teeth. “Damn,” he says, “sorry. I guess that means Chan couldn’t, either.” 

“Well,” Wonwoo says to the chicken he transfers to his own plate, “I’m honestly not sure. I have a shitload of end of the year conferences to sit through, and they _may_ have mercy on his soul while I'm occupied. But.” 

“He still has a lot of catching up to do?” Soonyoung supplies. 

Wonwoo’s silence is enough of an answer. 

“They’re gonna work him down to the bone. Hasn’t he repented enough?” 

“Sales are the worst they’ve been since the summer,” Wonwoo says. “Guess they’re hoping for a miracle before the end of the year report.” He doesn’t make eye contact with a pouting Soonyoung, instead opting to focus hard as he rips the meat from the bone of his chicken drum. 

Wonwoo already knows he sounds scarily similar to Jinho or Sungmin— robotic, uncaring. The aftershocks of Chan’s (first) public mishap continues to trickle down to him, and he’s not stupid; he has a target on his back. Park is waiting for the next shoe to drop, probably foaming at the mouth to have Wonwoo replaced with Sungmin, a litany of other new grads desperate for a job that isn’t pushing papers in a cubicle for the next forty-plus years of their life. Somebody that won’t care as much. Not for anything outside of their paycheck. 

And he could say the same about his mother and father. After the news came out, they’ve been circling like all the other vultures, except this time hoping that Wonwoo will resign, get dismissed, break down and tell them that they’re right, he should’ve done something different with his life. He has a near-perfect suneung score, a business and communications degree from Hanyang University, and—allegedly—nothing to show for it. So now his mom has to tell her friends and the rest of the family that her oldest son is a glorified personal assistant while her second son is an actor. 

The family’s shame. Why the fuck would Wonwoo want to go home to Changwon and subject himself to that? Isn’t being a walking target and pseudo-therapist enough misery to last him the next four years of his contract?

Alright. Wonwoo doesn’t want to think about this anymore. “So,” Wonwoo says, “tell me about how practice has been going with 8-teen. I heard their next comeback is gonna be a darker concept.” 

Thankfully, Soonyoung plays along and switches course. “Oh, yeah, it’s been going well. They’re easy to teach,” he plops another meat slice into his mouth, then some salad. “And they’re so _passionate_ , y’know? I don’t have to get on any of them for slacking. Seokmin has improved on his technique a lot since I last taught them.” 

“On their way to the top,” Wonwoo agrees. 

Soonyoung dips his next slice into the bowl of ssamjang. “Definitely. I can see them beating The Boyz out in album sales next year. Monsters.” 

Wonwoo hums. Luckily Chan and Junhui get along well; Park knew what he was doing, pushing them together to record dance covers. It’s a tad upsetting that this has become more for Chan’s sake than 8-teen’s, though. Up until half a year ago, Chan had been Kaleidoscope’s number one artist, always earning the company at least twenty-five percent more of what 8-teen and Pristin did. Even after the hell that’s been summer and fall, Wonwoo has yet to wrap his mind around just how steep of a decline Chan’s numbers have taken. Six years—eight, if you count his training period—taught Wonwoo that the industry for idols is fickle, but (and perhaps foolishly) he thought of Chan as the exception and not the rule. The kid _debuted_ selling more than a lot of other established musicians. 

Insanity. 

“But,” Soonyoung continues, leaning forward into Wonwoo’s space conspiratorially. This earns him Wonwoo’s attention. “Guess what I heard?” 

Wonwoo continues to stare, waiting for Soonyoung to finish. Soonyoung stares back, eyebrows raised and mouth open in a smile, also waiting. 

Muted conversation of other patrons and the grill sizzling fill the silence. 

Fine. He’ll play. “What did you hear?” Wonwoo deadpans. 

Soonyoung leans closer, the edge of the table cutting into his abdomen. “Junhui is dating someone,” he says in what is probably considered a whisper in Soonyoung standards, but is really just talking in a breathy tone. He has a hand cupped around his mouth, essentially for show. “A Taiwanese idol from PS.” 

Wonwoo blinks at him, slow and lazy. “You’re gossiping about your clients now?” 

Soonyoung’s smile falters. 

“Joking—please tell me the gossip. Do you know who?” 

Soonyoung’s smile returns to full capacity. “Yup. Her name is Tzuyu and she’s, like, the visual. A good vocalist, too. Also really, _really_ pretty; our Jun lucked out.” Soonyoung fishes his phone out of his pocket, wags it around with some eyebrow wiggles. “Wanna see her Instagram?” 

Wonwoo will never turn down ogling visuals on social media. Anything to escape the hell that is work-related—or family-related—conversation. He takes one last bite of his chichen before he lays his chopsticks onto his napkin. “Didn’t even have to ask,” he says. 

“Are you heading back to Gyeonggi for chuseok?” 

“Yeah,” Soonyoung says, “I got time off, thank the lord.” He falters. “No offense.” 

Wonwoo waves a hand as if swatting away the apology. “It’s fine. This is a part of the job description.” And remaining in Seoul is preferable, hectic as it is. 

They’re out on the sidewalk after fighting over who’ll pay (Wonwoo won, using his long legs as an advantage), their cars parked in opposite directions. It’s a warm, slightly humid afternoon, and Wonwoo can feel his pits tingling with sweat beneath his long-sleeve button down. Soonyoung is in some workout clothes, material absorbent and comfortable. 

“I’m, um,” Soonyoung wrings his hands together, eyes flickering between them and Wonwoo’s careful gaze, “I’m thinking of taking Mingyu with me.” 

Ah. That. Isn’t what Wonwoo expected. They shift closer to the restaurant window as pedestrians weave between and around them. “Oh,” he breathes. “Okay.” 

“I think it’s time, Mingyu thinks it’s time,” Soonyoung rushes, “and, like. His parents already met me.” 

Wonwoo isn’t sure what to say, so he stands and waits as Soonyong continues to rub at the skin on his hands. 

“And I get it. It’s only fair that, like. I have to be brave, too.” 

A beat of silence. “Are you prepared?” he asks, quietly. They both hear the silent _for if it goes wrong?_ at the end of his question, Wonwoo’s sure, because Soonyoung’s brows inch impossibly close, a crease of skin acting as a barrier. 

There’s a moment of incomprehensible vocalizing before Soonyoung finds his words, muttering, “It’s important. To me and to him. So,” now he meets Wonwoo’s weary eyes, “I have to be.” 

Not quite the answer to his question. But, Wonwoo knows that’s the best it’ll ever get—the uncertainty and fear, a mix of bravery. Soonyoung’s always been like that. Chasing what he wants no matter how daunting it may seem. Refusing to settle, hence why he stands there a choreographer for several different companies while Wonwoo shares his breath, a man that took the first job that called him back because the idea of sitting through more interviews made him physically sick. 

No matter how close Wonwoo gets, a wall remains. Soonyoung is a sun that burns through his exterior, digging right to his insecurities. 

Chan’s eyes, too. 

“That’s,” Wonwoo breathes on an exhale, “great. I’m proud of you.” 

For the first time in what feels like years, he says something he means. 

  
  


Wonwoo has no qualms admitting he was (and is) a bit of a loser. He had an advantage amongst his friend group back in highschool, being considered handsome by a lot of the girls—but that was by coincidence, luck. He spent a lot of time slacking off and very little studying or working on assignments, thanks to his _other_ advantage of being naturally intelligent. 

That was where his advantages stopped. His parents were unable to put a name on it until he nearly passed out from hyperventilating at one too many celebratory dinners; they finally had to admit that their eldest son wasn’t neurotypical, though it had taken quite a while for them to cycle through the stages of grief. 

For what? Wonwoo to this day isn’t sure. Social anxiety is scarier when you have no idea what’s happening, when you’re paralyzed with the fear that you may have a neurological condition, or that you have an unknown autoimmune disorder, or _something_. A few visits to his primary care doctor and a therapist told him—and his parents—that none of that was true. 

So, he had to take medication. Whatever. And he had to excuse himself to perform breathing exercises occasionally. Big deal. As long as it wasn’t anything fatal, Wonwoo could deal with it, take a pill everyday, go somewhere private to calm down when it felt like the walls were closing in on him. 

Still, it was almost as if his parents would’ve been happier to know that he had a heart abnormality. The long list of disappointments started with that: our eldest son, Jeon Wonwoo, is mentally ill. How are we going to tell the family? _Are_ we going to tell the family? Who is going to take care of us when we get older? Bohyuk? Where did we fall short? 

And that wasn’t why Wonwoo was a loser, but maybe it had some kind of correlation. Social anxiety meant he stuck with his three friends, playing video games in lieu of studying, meant that he went to bookstores to pick up the latest books or manga from his favorite authors, and meant that he spent a whole lot of time alone— _a lot_. Watching anime, watching idol shows or performances, fapping. 

Lots and lots of fapping. 

Wonwoo started with erotic novels since he loved to read, and his imagination was vivid enough that words were more than enough fodder to get off to. He’d let that be the catalyst to his nightly sessions, then when his eyes were too tired to focus, he’d turn off all the lights, lie back on his bed, and fantasize. 

What happened next in the book? That was up to him. He left off where the twenty-something girl met the forty-year old man by Yeongsan river, where she thought she’d be alone now that it was half past midnight. And then? Maybe the white tee shirt she was wearing was still damp from the evening’s rain shower, and the man could see how the cotton material clung to the soft slopes of her breasts. 

Maybe she was shivering a little, cold, and her light brown nipples were pert and standing to attention, creating tiny little tents where the shirt should lie flat. And the man could see that—all of it—the color of her nipples, the transparency of the tee, her ink black hair wrapped around her neck and over her shoulders like they, too, were rivers of obsidian. 

At this point Wonwoo would be touching himself, just a weak squeeze at the base of his cock. With each new addition to the story, he’d fist himself harder, work the length faster. The man would shove her down onto the rocks and catch her bubblegum pink lips into a kiss, and she’d like it. She’d willingly fuck a stranger twice her age right there by the bank of a fucking _river_ , moans trapped in her throat by his eager tongue, and she’d like it. Wonwoo would blow his load at the same time she came, her pussy spasming around the stranger’s fat cock, tipping her head back and moaning as he did, in Changwon, in his childhood bed. 

If it wasn’t fantasizing about women that lived on the pages of a book, Wonwoo would use a VPN on his laptop to watch porn: amateur, kinky, depraved, he wasn’t picky. Sometimes hentai of the anime he liked, or just any hentai where the girls had massive tits and disgustingly exaggerated body proportions and moaned like they were being killed. 

As an adult, he graduated to camgirls—then camboys. Something he patiently waited until he was in the safety of his on-campus dorm to do, because his mother found his numerous erotic novels the day after Seollal and brought it to his father so he could determine how to react to it. (They weren’t enthused about the porn, but Wonwoo could tell it quelled their fears that he was gay. Hah.) 

He didn’t start dating until his second year of university. Reeling women in with his height and good looks was the easy part, _keeping_ them was where it became tricky. Only few tolerated his affinity for staying in and reading, playing video games, watching idols shows; even less tolerated his porn habits. And, in-between dating, he’d go through the meticulous—and, honestly, terrifying—song and dance of picking up men on dating apps (he got too confident about the strides he was making with his social anxiety and attempted bars, lucked out once or twice before the diaphoresis and heart palpitations weren’t worth the effort anymore). 

The point is that, at the end of the day the only thing that wasn’t fickle was Wonwoo’s imagination. Fingering imaginary girlfriends under the dinner table while her parents asked him about his upbringing; bending a first year over and spanking his ass until he left palm prints on each globe, his hand burning from the force; wrapping his fingers around a girl’s—or, fuck, a guy’s, he didn’t give a fuck—slender throat as he fucked her to feel her pussy clench and throb around his cock in an orgasm. And thank god for that, because once he moved into Kaleidoscope’s dormitories, sharing a living space with a child popstar, his fantasies became more important than ever before. 

Wonwoo couldn’t risk keeping erotic novels in his room, nor did he have any time to play games or go through his long routine of scouring the internet for the perfect video to jerk off to. But, he could think about ravishing a stranger by the Yeongsan river, spit in someone’s mouth and slap them while they thanked him, try to cover up his groans of pleasure as someone got to their knees and sucked him off in the middle of a bookstore. 

Imagine what would’ve happened if Chan didn’t slip out of his bed after they made out to return to his own room. If Wonwoo was more confident and less shameful. If Chan would’ve liked it when he’d pin his wrists together with one hand, suck bruises into his throat, bully his way between Chan’s gorgeous, thick thighs and rut against his cock. What would his moans sound like? How pink could his skin flush from arousal? Could Wonwoo get him to beg for his cock? To call him _seonsaengnim_? 

It made the mornings a little awkward for Wonwoo, sure, but the days were so damn busy that he wouldn’t even remember to be ashamed about it until he’d lie down to sleep and fantasize all over again. Only then would he come into his fist with Chan’s name on his lips, letting the post-orgasm high fade before he could recall that, somehow, Chan trusted him. 

  
  


_Trusts_ him. 

Wonwoo’s in the company gym, on minute two of what’s meant to be a four-minute wall sit, when his phone buzzes in the waist pocket of his leggings. Irrational, _exhausted_ him would ignore it and finish his two minutes in peace, tell him to enjoy his tiny slice of peace and quiet, but he set his phone to ring for only four people: Jinho, Sungmin, Park, and Chan. So, much to Irrational, Exhausted Wonwoo’s chagrin, this is something that probably can’t wait two minutes; all of the above are impatient and will call if he doesn’t respond in under thirty seconds. 

He huffs out an annoyed groan, head tipping back to blink up at the fluorescent lights, before he blindly pulls out his phone and unlocks it with his face. _Lee Chan - KaTalk_ , _2 messages_. Good. Better than the other miserable souls trying to contact him at one in the fucking morning. Wonwoo taps on the app. 

[ +148, - 63] this has to be his worst title song yet. The chorus isnt even catchy no wonder no one is buying this sh*t 

[+ 1175, - 294] I think this is the beginning of the end for Chan. His company needs to give up on the innocent golden boy concept. It worked for so long because colours believed that he was actually like that but now that we know the truth it wont work anymore. They have 8teen and pristin so they’ll be ok but theyre wasting their money giving chan another bad concept. The real chan is the type of loser that goes to clubs and picks up whores from the red light district not the chan singing about courage and asking girls out. Hes washed up. This was a mistake 

It’s a screenshot. Of what article and on what website, who knows, because Chan cropped it to only show those comments. Wonwoo can feel a weight growing on top of his ribcage, slowly but surely crushing down on his lungs; his thighs wobble and fail on him just as his timer goes off, and Wonwoo slides down the wall to a sitting position on his mat. And he’s not sure he wants to see what the second message is—the picture and the idea that Chan saw this, that Chan broke one of their only personal rules and looked up his name, hurts enough, a blunt edge of a knife to the gut—but his curiosity gets the best of him. He flicks down. 

**Lee Chan**

Hyung I dont know what im supposed to do [1:12 a.m.] 

Wonwoo doesn’t have the opportunity to process that before another stream of messages come in.

**Lee** **Chan**

I dont know what anyone wants from me 

What else do i have to give [1:14 a.m.]

He ignores the burn in his legs to struggle to his feet. It’s the fastest cooldown and clean-up since he began working out, his half-assed job at wiping down the mat and the weights, the two-second stretch so his limbs don’t feel like mashed jello during schedules tomorrow. The adrenaline has him forget that if Chan is looking at the chat, he’ll see that Wonwoo has read it and didn’t bother to respond. 

All Wonwoo can think about is that Chan is at the dorm alone, and Wonwoo is at the company building, and there’s maybe a ten-minute gap between them if Wonwoo sprints the entire way back, twenty if he jogs. And his sore muscles scream at him as he bolts out of the gym, down the dark hallway and out into the dark, empty lobby. 

Even out on the street, it somehow feels like walls are closing in on him. Like he’s been crammed into a tiny, crowded elevator that’s going down from the fiftieth floor, and his stomach is doing that nauseating prolapse up through his esophagus, and the pressure in his ears amplify every shaky breath he gulps in. Wonwoo has been acquainted long enough with his body to recognize the precursor to an anxiety attack. And he’s teetering there, trying to steady himself on a tightrope, while he sprints down the sidewalk and begs his brain to be kind to him for _one fucking night_. 

Wonwoo doesn’t _think_ Chan will do anything drastic. This past year has been an unprecedented time in his career, and Chan has been more volatile lately, yes, but he refuses to believe that this adversary will be Chan’s breaking point. If nothing else, pride and spite alone can power that monster; he sprained an ankle and had to get his dislocated shoulder manually shoved back into the pocket once and _still_ went on stage to perform. That’s what the rational part of Wonwoo’s brain is telling him, even as his body works in opposition. 

But, he has to admit that he isn’t well-versed in this version of Chan. He’s never been dragged through the media like this before, never had to protect his meticulously curated image prior to July. Prior to July, Chan was too proud to _cry_ in front of him; now Wonwoo’s seen him cry more than he has in their six year timeline, which has been _twice_ , maybe three times. Everything is crumbling, and quickly—Chan’s career, and Wonwoo’s, too. Chan’s resolve. 

_What else do I have to give?_

Wonwoo is almost not surprised to rush into the apartment, kick off his shoes, and go down the hallway to find his own bedroom door open, and Chan lying there, under his covers, on his pillow, face damp and splotchy, eyes red-rimmed. No active tears but coming down from a fit, maybe. 

“Hyung,” Chan whimpers, voice breaking around the word, and Wonwoo’s heart breaks with it. 

If Chan is disgusted by his sweaty skin, he doesn’t say anything when Wonwoo crosses the room and tugs Chan up into an embrace. He noses his way into Chan’s hair, arms tightening around his middle as if he’ll leak from his fingers if his hold is too loose. And Chan’s body is sturdy, limp weight that Wonwoo has to adjust to keep upright, yet terrifyingly fragile, fickle like any blink now Chan will burst into smoke. 

“Everybody wants something from me,” Chan’s words are muffled into Wonwoo’s shoulder, thick with the threat of more tears. “Hyung— _please_.” 

Fuck. Nothing has felt real for years. Wonwoo knows this is a trick of the eye, angled mirrors that turn one color into a sea. Chan pretends to be sane and Wonwoo pretends to not be a fuck-up, a failure that can’t even care for his own. 

But— “What do you want?” Wonwoo is relieved at how steady his voice sounds to his own ears, patient and controlled because one of them has to be. Wonwoo has to be. “Tell me what you want, not what everyone else wants, okay? Tell hyung.” 

Chan trembles in his arms. He has fists twisting Wonwoo’s shirt into roses at the waist, an anchor that keeps him grounded. Wonwoo kisses into the hair at the crown of his head, mint on his tongue and in his nose. 

“I wanna choose,” Chan whispers.

“Choose?” 

“What to give,” he says, and now he tilts his head back, removing Wonwoo from where his nose is buried. “Who to give it to.” 

Wonwoo cups a palm on Chan’s cheek, rubbing at the puffy bags beneath his right eye. “That’s what you want?” It’s vague, ominous in a way that has Wonwoo’s stomach returning to its spot in his esophagus. “Then. Then, choose. You have the right to choose what you give and when.” 

He hates that that’s not entirely true. He feels fucking sick, unable to give Chan anything more than false consolement and the shelter of his arms, his bed. Chan has tripped and is falling so hard, so fast, from the skyscraper he spent the past six years building—and there’s no one there to catch him. Not his piece of a shit dad, not his piece of shit company, not—fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —not even Wonwoo. Wonwoo abandoned him, saying things he should’ve never said because he’s a selfish prick too caught up in his own insecurities, the lack of control he has on his own life. 

“I’m so sorry,” Wonwoo whispers to him, now using both hands to cradle Chan’s face. His thumbs continue to wipe at the tears that leak free, and Chan holds onto Wonwoo’s wrists. “Chan, I—hyung said something he didn’t mean. I’m so sorry, Channie, hyung was wrong. You belong to yourself. You—you can choose. Okay? It’s your right.” 

Even if it’s an optical illusion, this has to be true. Wonwoo may not have control of anything where he’s considered, but he has to remain in control of this—if he folds, Chan folds. Optical illusion, mirage, refracted light pooling into an ocean, Wonwoo has to give Chan this. Is it truly fake if it can exist inside their minds? 

Chan’s eyes flutter closed, dewdrops hanging from his lashes. He sucks in a shaking breath, chest rising and falling, grip tightening on Wonwoo’s wrists. 

“Okay?” Wonwoo whispers. “You can choose.” 

“I can choose,” Chan repeats, so soft that it’s barely a sound at all, and another deep breath escapes him. He doesn’t let go of Wonwoo, anchoring himself to something. Something real.

This is real. It has to be, so it is. 

He lets Chan sleep with him. Once Chan calms down enough that Wonwoo feels comfortable leaving him alone, he takes a quick shower, brushes his teeth, and crawls into bed. Chan is curled up under his covers as he gets under too, and Wonwoo doesn’t have the chance to situate himself comfortably before Chan wiggles to his side, curling around him instead. 

That’s fine. It’s comfortable wherever Chan needs him. 

Wonwoo massages the muscles in Chan’s neck, his back, until he feels Chan’s breathing even out. 

The morning is quiet. Wonwoo remains worried. Chan seems to have returned from wherever he went, but he knows that can’t be the entire truth. He’s good at that, pretending. His pervasive stage, spotlight bright and bearing down on him. He’ll stuff his vulnerabilities back in and seal his chest up if it means he doesn’t have to face them. 

And no matter what Chan wants—what Chan needs—the show must go on. 

They’re dressed and sleepily ambling into the van at quarter to five. Chan has a _Blankof_ brand deal to fulfill, then a fanmeet later that day. “I have a meeting I have to go to, so I’m gonna drop you off,” Wonwoo says as he buckles himself in, “but you’ll have Jihye noona and Seoyoon noona there until I can slip away.” He turns the key in the ignition, and the van purrs to life. “Call if you need me before then.” 

Chan hums distractedly, leaning in his seat after buckling himself in. 

“Youngjin hyung is working today, so if for some reason I can’t make it in time, he’ll drive you to the fanmeet and I’ll meet up with you after.” Wonwoo adjusts the rearview mirror, then shifts the gear into drive. “He’s a better bodyguard than me, anyway,” he laughs, a self-deprecating little sound. 

Then he pulls off onto the main road. 

“Oh,” Wonwoo continues, “and Jinho added a meeting to your schedule. You should have it on your calendar by now. It’s set for—” 

“Hyung?” 

Wonwoo falters. From his periphery he can see Chan shift his gaze from out at the dark, empty streets to him. This is a tone of voice he cannot parse. 

“Yeah?” 

“I want to choose.” 

They turn onto a busier highway, merging into traffic. Other company vans are not too far behind.

Wonwoo coils his fingers tighter around the steering wheel. “Well,” he breathes, “you can.” 

Muted sounds of the car rumbling and the radio on low fill the subsequent silence. This is the ominous sinking feeling Wonwoo felt last night, a premonition that seeps into his sick fantasies. He’s praying Chan leaves it at that, that Chan isn’t going to ask for answers Wonwoo can’t— _shouldn’t_ —provide him. Wonwoo’s a liar, a filthy liar, there are things Chan can’t choose, and Wonwoo— 

“If I could give myself to anyone I wanted,” Chan says, quiet and careful. 

But not careful enough. This isn’t careful. None of this. There are some things you want and can’t have, Wonwoo’s intimately aware of that, so much so that he keeps a cage around his thoughts, desperate to contain it where it can’t hurt—

“I’d give myself to you.” 

Fuck. That’s. That’s not a good idea. “Chan,” Wonwoo practically whimpers, pained with want. A sudden flood of desire that has Wonwoo fighting to remain focused on the road, to remain grounded and remember where he is and what he’s supposed to be doing. 

His job. He’s supposed to be doing his _job_. 

“I’d give myself to you, because I want to,” Chan persists. His voice quivers, but it’s louder now, more firm. “I want you to have me, Wonwoo hyung.” 

Wonwoo shouldn’t speak. If there’s no response, there’s no room for Chan to argue or barter himself for the taking. Oh, god. Wonwoo’s dreamt of it—their kiss, having Chan, pinning him down and just _having_ him—but that’s where it’s safe, in his dreams. He can imagine fucking a girl by the river, fingering her at the dining table, _whatever_ , because that’s where it begins and ends: inside his imagination. So, Wonwoo can’t speak. Nothing good will slip out if he does. He’s a weak, weak man and somehow Chan trusts him, trusts him so much he’s sitting there telling Wonwoo he wants Wonwoo to _have him_. 

He doesn’t speak. At all. Chan doesn’t say anything else, and Wonwoo doesn’t say anything entirely. 

They arrive at the mall, and Wonwoo says nothing. 

He parks amongst the other utility vans and says nothing. 

Chan unbuckles his seatbelt and says, “See you in a few,” and hops out of the car, and Wonwoo nods and says nothing. 

Only once Chan is swept up by Youngjin and the other security guards does Wonwoo shakily pull out of the lot, drive to another spot way, way in the back, and park so that he can curl in on himself and try not to lose his fucking mind. 

  
  


The return drive to Kaleidoscope gives Wonwoo too much time to think. Even with the radio turned up loud enough to vibrate the dashboard, adrenaline and fear rings louder. 

He’s not sure why he’s so taken aback. If nothing else, Wonwoo should’ve expected this at _some_ point in the year following Chan’s twentieth. Their first—and only—kiss was the flick of a flame, eating away at the space Wonwoo tries to uphold in day, week, month increments. 

They’ve come close to a second several times. It’s easy to pretend, yeah, but simultaneously impossible to ignore. Memories can’t be overwritten, and every time Wonwoo looks at Chan’s mouth he sees that same scene, starting right from when Chan leaned up and broke a barrier that can never be unbroken. And whenever he catches Chan staring at his mouth, he knows Chan is seeing that night, too. 

A shameless side of Wonwoo is telling him that there’s no fucking point in maintaining this invisible boundary. He already fucked up, there’s no undoing that, nor can he erase Chan’s memories for his own peace of mind—so might as well continue down this morally grey road, no? No one is going to believe that the most they’ve done is share a single kiss even if Wonwoo, hypothetically, tells someone about what occurred. No one. Wonwoo wouldn’t believe _himself_. 

Hypothetically, if Soonyoung comes to him and tells him, _oh Wonwoo, this idol that I live with and have lived with for six years now kissed me one time, just once, promise_ , Wonwoo would be agreeable on the outside, but on the inside he’d be thinking, _no fucking way you two kissed once and nothing happened ever again_. That’s the type of lie creeps tell all the time to try to absolve themselves of what isn’t a legal crime, but a moral one. A socially unacceptable crime where the punishment is a loss of respect and whispers when you aren’t looking. 

So, fuck it, right? Everyone will believe Wonwoo fucks Chan on a nightly basis regardless—might as well make that a reality. (And, god, does Wonwoo want to. It’s honestly pathetic, the scenarios he creates to get himself off on those nights where he’s tired of chasing off Chan-centered fantasies.) 

(Chan wants it, too, though, doesn’t he? Perhaps not the same things Wonwoo’s thought about—but Chan told him he wanted to be his. He said that. Holy shit, Chan told him _he wanted Wonwoo to have him_.) 

His rational side is telling him that no, it’s not too late. It’s never too late to be the responsible, level-headed hyung and tell Chan that this isn’t what he wants. This is a request spurred by his loneliness, his want for autonomy, and he’s willing to gain control the only way he can: with his sexuality. That’s the one part of Chan that no one can take from him, his final sliver of hope. 

And Wonwoo is the means to an end. 

Right? 

Wonwoo has the same two arguments fighting for precedence as he ambles into the conference room, taking his usual spot near the end of the table. He’s made it two minutes prior to the established start time, so everyone is already there and getting settled—Sungmin next to Wonwoo, Jinho next to them, and then Park and other members of Chan’s team. Wonwoo is still shaky with their names since he doesn’t see them often (they usually have separate conferences with Park), but he does recognize two men from the financial department and a couple of administration staff. 

It’s… weird. Odd enough to chase away Wonwoo’s internal crisis, making room for a new one. 

Park’s assistant, a mousy woman that Wonwoo’s never seen with her hair free from a ponytail, closes the door to the conference room just as Park sits at the head of the table. The gesture calls for silence, and immediately side conversations taper off. 

“Gentlemen,” Park says, “you know I hate wasting time, so I’m going to try to be concise here.” His assistant hands him a tablet, and Park has to adjust his reading glasses to focus on the screen. “There are going to be some changes regarding the timeline for Chan’s winter album release.” 

Wonwoo takes a side-glance at Sungmin. There’s something scarily close to a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, and Wonwoo watches as he and Jinho exchange a look. And this can be paranoia and a nauseating sense of dread messing with Wonwoo’s head, but it’s not an expression of satisfaction that he sees. 

Jinho looks at Sungmin as if he’s won some kind of bet. _I told you so_. 

“And by changes, I mean that it’s in our best interests _financially_ ,” he enunciates the word like that should convince them in and of itself, “to postpone progress on the album. I already informed Jihoon-ssi that the deadline has been pushed back.” 

There’s a momentary pause for the news to be processed, some muttering in surprise, the financial team sitting quietly and waiting. Wonwoo thinks he’s going to be sick. 

If he barfs, he at least hopes some of it splatters on Sungmin. 

“That doesn’t mean all activities are to be postponed,” Park continues. “Chan’s brand deals and commercial work will persist as scheduled,” now his eyes scan the room, lingering on some faces before he considers the words on the tablet again, “but with how sales have been, we’re at a net loss for the past two quarters. We can’t afford another loss like this in the new year.” 

Park is still speaking—his mouth is moving, so he must be—but Wonwoo isn’t hearing anything anymore. The walls are closing in, all four of them, and Wonwoo can hear his own, shaky breaths in his ears. 

This. This isn’t good. Not for Wonwoo’s anxiety, not for Chan’s declining mental state, not for Chan’s career. 

This is the beginning of the end. The stumble to trap Chan in becoming a glorified brand ambassador, because that’s the only way he can earn the company money. Popularity is fickle; disappear for one month and it’s as if you never existed. 

Disappear for an _entire season_ and you’re as good as done. 

Wonwoo prays that this is just his anxiety talking, dialing his fears up to one-hundred. That there’s no way Chan can go from skyscraper high to his deathbed in the blink of an eye. People can’t be that cruel. No fucking way. 

He doesn’t want to believe it. 

But they can. 

Park is sitting there, at the head of the conference table, prattling on about different methods to bring revenue up to baseline as if this is another contract to scribble over with his signature. Dead-eyed, clinical, a robot in a tailored suit. 

And then Sungmin and Jinho, smirking and extracting _joy_ out of being right. Nevermind that they’re betting on the fate of a real person’s career, a person that they’ve known as long as Wonwoo has. Nevermind that this can be the final string that ends Chan’s life—metaphorically and literally (hopefully not literally, but it’s a thought that cannot escape him). And yet here he is, watching two grown men gossip like high schoolers. Evil. 

Funny how Wonwoo once thought Chan was the sociopath. 

The meeting was, in actuality, not concise. It wasn’t anything important to Wonwoo—a schedule is a schedule, so Wonwoo’s job is still to take Chan where he needs to be when he needs to be there—but there were a myriad of instructions towards Jinho on producers to contact, as well as companies that want to get in touch; Sungmin, too, has a lot more on his plate since rebuilding Chan’s public reputation is going to be a long, long, (long) uphill battle that Sungmin hasn’t had to do before. That, and Chan’s social media presence is going to have to become a priority— “We need more interactions with the fans,” Park told Sungmin. “Tweets, selcas, Instagram, et cetera. I don’t know how any of that works, so I’m leaving it to your team.” 

“Keep his head on straight,” was Park’s only words to Wonwoo, just before he dismissed the conference. It took everything in Wonwoo’s spirit not to tell him to go fuck himself. 

Out in the hallway, Wonwoo adjusts the lapels of his suit jacket with shaky fingers. Some of them loiter in the room or near the doorway, while others disperse to their respective floors. He’s trying to even out his breathing when Jinho leans a shoulder on the wall beside him. 

“Chan has that fanmeet,” Jinho says, taking a cursory glance at his watch as if he doesn’t have Chan’s schedule memorized down to the fucking second. 

Breathe, Wonwoo, breathe. 

“I’m well aware,” Wonwoo says to his hands. It’s difficult to re-button a jacket when he can’t stop the stupid tremors. 

“Who took him there? Youngjin-ssi?” 

“Yes.” His contempt is poorly concealed. Not like Jinho doesn’t already know. 

Jinho pushes off of the wall. “Alright, well,” he says, “don’t forget he has a meeting to go a—” 

“Eight, yes,” Wonwoo retorts. Now he meets Jinho’s eyes, gaze cast down since he has a good few centimeters on him. “This is what it’s about, isn’t it? Postponing the album and comeback?” 

“Great deduction skills,” Jinho quirks an eyebrow. Wonwoo probably deserves that smart-ass response, but it doesn’t stop him from getting more annoyed. “Chan isn’t gonna be happy. But,” he shrugs, “that’s what happens when you fuck up. Right, Wonwoo-ssi?” 

Wonwoo isn’t given the opportunity to call Jinho a soulless prick with zero empathy before Jinho gives him a condescending pat on the shoulder and walks off. (He wasn’t going to, actually, though he really _really_ wanted to.) 

It’s understandable that they’re not too enthused about Chan dumping a shitload more work on them to rectify the repercussions of his scandal. He gets it. Wonwoo received a red flag and threats of his own. And he can also sort of empathize with the fact that they’ve decided to take their anger out on him; he was the one that was supposed to be keeping a leash on Chan. That’s a large part of why he has to live with him, outside of convenience and—again—acting as a glorified personal assistant. 

But none of that erases how this isn’t okay. The high school behavior, the postponement of Chan’s comeback instead of holding onto hope for a little while longer. Maintaining trust in their top earner, the kid that _built_ this fucking building in the first place. 

Wonwoo is pissed. So pissed he’s shaking in it. Enraged and anxious, and—and _terrified_. Chan’s going to leave his fanmeet to drive straight into the jaws of these predators, and he’ll have to stare Park in the face as they seal his fate. Lock the cage and toss the key. 

Wonwoo doesn’t want to warn Chan ahead of time and throw him off his game. Lord knows he’s thrown off enough. But. 

He fishes his phone out of his slacks’ pocket and unlocks it, promptly swiping over to KaTalk.

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Meeting ran late, so I’ll let Youngjin hyung know to drive you to the conference.

Please come see me after. 

I’ll be waiting up for you [11:44 a.m.]

This he can do. Be the person he’s supposed to be: the man Chan can trust. Wonwoo doesn’t think he deserves it, but it doesn’t matter. This isn’t about Wonwoo’s feelings, as much as he has towards Chan.

This is about doing what he should’ve done the moment the scandal broke. 

  
  


“What do you think you would’ve done if you weren’t an idol?” Wonwoo asked. He absently watched Chan scroll through one of his fan cafe’s twitter account, analyzing the different angles they shot of him. Some of him hopping out of the van, mid-wave and on his way to a schedule. Wonwoo couldn’t remember which.

“Probably what Soonyoung hyung does,” Chan answered without hesitation. “My parents own those dance studios; I used to watch them teach ‘n stuff.” 

Wonwoo hummed. 

They were sitting in the music studio, waiting for Jihoon to show up so that he could record an OST. Jinho was very pleased with himself, celebrating like he was the one that reached out to the drama's production team and not the other way around. Either way, Chan had ballads to sing, and they were paying a shitload for it. 

Chan saved a few, good shots onto his phone, and then flicked over to another fan account. “You graduated from Hanyang University.” 

“That I did.” 

Chan looked away from the screen to study Wonwoo’s blank expression. Wonwoo also looked away, reluctantly meeting his gaze. 

“That’s a top ten university, isn’t it?” Chan asked. Tufts of dark brown hair stuck out from under the hood of his sweatshirt, casting a shadow over half of his face. Wonwoo liked him better like this—bare faced, glasses with winged rims, casual clothes. He looked more his age, right at the beginnings of adulthood. 

“So I’ve heard,” Wonwoo said. He already knew where this was going before Chan could respond; he’d heard it plenty from his family. 

Chan’s lips were parted on reluctant words (a rarity, Wonwoo noted, and that made the conversation all the more dreadful), before he appeared to change his mind. 

“If you weren’t a manager,” Chan said, “what do you think you’d be doing?” 

Not quite the question he was expecting. Nonetheless, Wonwoo’s response was immediate— “7-11 employee,” he said. 

A hiccup of a laugh escaped Chan, before he studied Wonwoo’s expressionless face and realized that he was, in fact, not joking. “What?” he said. “With a degree from Hanyang?” 

Wonwoo fixed his stare somewhere over Chan’s shoulder. They were several years deep at this point; he might as well give Chan honesty. “When I graduated,” he started, “I was an anxious mess. Really bad. Um,” he pushed his glasses up his nose bridge, paused to contemplate his next words, “I suffer from, uh—I have panic attacks. A lot. At the time, I was at my worst, to the point that I’d embarrass myself at interviews.” 

Chan didn’t respond nor react, so Wonwoo pushed on. 

“I… honestly don’t know how I got this job? Like,” he shoved at his glasses again, a nervous habit that he hadn’t been able to kick, “It was the first one where I didn’t _completely_ lose it, but it still wasn’t _good_.” 

“Was this the first job that hired you?” 

Now Wonwoo looked at him. Chan appeared curious, if not slightly concerned, than anything else. 

“That,” Wonwoo drawled, “and I couldn’t go through the mental stress of going to interviews anymore. It really fucked me up.” 

Chan nodded, eyes going glassy with thought. Then he nodded again, and returned to his phone. “Well,” he said, “I don’t think you’d be a 7-11 worker. Too much human interaction.” 

“Yeah?” Wonwoo laughed. “Didn’t think of that. Maybe you’re right.” 

“I could see you doing software development, or something. Or a game developer. You look the type. Oh!” Chan perked up and looked at Wonwoo again. “A streamer! You said you used to play a lot of PC games.” 

Wonwoo gave another laugh and shook his head. “Look the type? What does that even look like? A loser?” 

“Exactly,” Chan snapped and pointed at him, “a loser. Keep the glasses and you’d fit right in with the NEETs.” 

Rolling his eyes, Wonwoo sucked his teeth and gave Chan a gentle shove on the shoulder.“Fuck off.” Chan rocked with it, giggling, and then bent back in Wonwoo’s direction to knock their sides together. 

“What? It’s a cushy profession. They make over one million won a year and they don’t even have to leave their room.” Chan leaned into Wonwoo’s personal space, trying to make eye contact as Wownoo continued to play at being offended and avoided it. “Hyung! It’s a compliment! Losers make more than me.” 

“Okay, okay, it’s a compliment,” Wonwoo said. “Now, shoo, stop staring at me,” he curled a hand around Chan’s jaw, thumb below one ear and his other fingers on the opposite side, pressing into his cheek; with his grip, he forced Chan’s head—and therefore his upper body—back to where it came from. 

Chan’s laugh turned boisterous; he grabbed Wonwoo’s wrist with his free hand and tried to fight against the push. “Hyung,” he pleaded, “don’t be mad, I promise it was a compliment.” 

“Right, I know, so shoo.” 

“Don’t be mean to your client,” Chan was able to lean over into Wonwoo’s space again once Wonwoo stopped fighting against him in an act of mercy, “I’ll report you.” 

Wonwoo didn’t realize how close Chan had gotten until the smell of mint conditioner was overwhelming—that, and he turned his head to give a smart retort of his own ( _You won’t do that; I’m the best manager you’ve ever had!_ ) and there Chan was, blinking up at him with those terrifyingly beautiful eyes, holding Wonwoo’s wrist as Wonwoo held his face. 

It was another one of the many moments since Chan’s twentieth that time seemed to slow, that Wonwoo, if he were a braver man, would’ve given Chan a second kiss. _Could’ve_ kissed him again. 

The studio was empty, it wouldn’t have taken much effort to close that centimeter gap between their mouths, and Chan was boring into his pupils as if he wanted Wonwoo to take that initiative. To give Chan permission to stop playing this frustrating game. 

But Wonwoo wasn’t a braver man. He was scared and ashamed of himself. He was supposed to be doing his job, separating his personal and professional life as much as one could when they live where they work and were on the go twenty-four seven. 

So, he didn’t. And like any shameless coward, he went to bed imagining what would’ve happened if he did. If Jihoon didn’t walk in ten minutes later and instead Wonwoo tightened his hand on Chan’s jaw, shoved his tongue into that sweet, sweet mouth, and took.

And Chan would let him. That was how it went, his fantasies. 

Reality could’ve gone that way, too. But, he didn’t—so it didn’t. 

  
  


Chan is a silhouette in his doorway when Wonwoo glances up. Light from the hallway pours into Wonwoo’s dark room, splaying across where he lies, supine on his mattress, save for where the Chan-shaped shadow stands. Wonwoo trains his face still, trying his best to suppress the tremors as he holds his phone. Its screen goes dark with inactivity. 

He’d heard the front door’s automatic lock beep, alerting him to Chan’s arrival, but the muscle in his limbs, heart, leaps once Wonwoo blinks him into sight, Chan wearing the teal blouse and jeans that he wore to his fanmeet earlier that morning. The deep v of Chan’s neckline dips down between his collarbones, clinging to his shoulders; his hair looks wind-tousled, fringe intentionally left long so that Jihye or Seoyoon could curl it however they’re instructed to; and it’s difficult to see his face clearly with the unflattering way the light is obscured by his body, but Wonwoo can still catch remnants of the soft gold to his eyelids, his lips tinted a lighter pink with gloss. 

The only tell Wonwoo has that the bomb reached 0 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes, is Chan’s shattered eyes, unguarded now that his final defenses have been blown to rubble. His cheeks and the tip of his nose is splotched with red, brown eyeliner smudged and mascara messy from the aftermath. And Wonwoo’s fucking terrified—he hasn’t stopped being scared shitless from the very first time Chan carved his place through his skull, stealing a spot beside his soul—but there’s a gentle wave of calm that quiets his racing mind, replacing those insecurities with one thing that Wonwoo knows for certain: 

Chan trusts him. 

“Come here,” Wonwoo says, gentle but steady. He maintains eye contact with Chan as he sets his phone on the nightstand face down. 

He is out of his depth. This is way, way out of his pay grade—worlds away. Wonwoo is one guy of thousands from Changwon, with two degrees from a top ten university but working a job well below his capabilities. He’s a coward and an undeniable pervert and his family’s shame. The most experience he may have at asserting himself—taking the lead and demanding attention—is in his fantasies, or the books he’s read or the videos he’s watched— 

But Chan trusts him. Wonwoo wants to be someone worth trusting. He wasn’t in June, not July or August or _ever_ , and yet still Chan stands there, unveiling the mess the eruption made and reminding Wonwoo that he played a part in that detonation. 

Wonwoo has an obligation to help rebuild. Leaving behind the fear, the uncertainty of the unknown, Wonwoo has to be that man worth trusting. 

Chan hasn’t moved from the doorway. It’s as if he never heard the instruction at all, despite his unwavering gaze. Wonwoo slowly sits up in the bed, swinging his legs over and placing his feet on the rug. 

“Chan,” he says, less gentle, an arm outstretched, “come here.” 

Chan comes. A slow, measured amble until he’s slotted between Wonwoo’s thighs, a position wholly unfamiliar to them yet automatic, instinctual. Wonwoo tips his head back to look up at Chan, hands carefully coming to hold him by his hips, firm and grounding. Orienting for Chan, maybe, but orienting for Wonwoo, too. This is real. The shards of glass behind Chan’s pupils, the way the backlight coats Chan’s silhouette in gold, his face blotchy, black smudged beneath his eyes. Painful and beautiful and _real_. 

“Hyung,” Chan hiccups. His eyebrows tug closer, curving, and his breath audibly shudders on an exhale. Wonwoo slides his palms halfway underneath Chan’s blouse, finding a patch of skin to rub comforting little circles into with his thumbs. And he’s trying not to make himself enraged again, not when Chan is like this, needing to be tethered to something resolute, unmoving—but he can’t help but wonder. 

(Who relayed the news? How did they relay it? Did Chan quietly accept it and waited until his release to breakdown? Was he able to hold what’s salvageable of his pride, even through the car ride with Youngjin? How the fuck could Chan trust someone so unreliable?) 

Wonwoo maintains his assertive disposition, says, “Tell me what you want.” 

This time Chan obeys automatically, voice hoarse, “To choose.” His face starts to flush again, tears welling in his eyes, “Wanna choose, hyung—plea—” 

“Choose what?” Wonwoo can feel the tremors returning, tiny shivers in his fingers, blood coursing with a warm rush of adrenaline. Chan’s bottom lip is trembling. “I need to hear you say it. Again. Look at me and say what you said in the car, an—and I need you to mean it.” 

“I mean it,” he leans on a whimper. 

“Do you? That’s what you want?” Wonwoo’s right thumb stills, and he slides that palm further up, pressing into the bare skin of Chan’s waist. Skin so warm, soft. “Then look at me and say that.” 

There wasn’t a need to tell Chan to look at him, because in reality Chan hasn’t looked away since he first materialized at his open door, but Wonwoo can feel the tremble in Chan’s bottom lip spread down his body at the command, and maybe that’s exactly it. Chan obeying because he decides to. _Wants_ to. When’s the last time Chan was given instruction that he had the choice to do? Whose projected dream is he living? 

“I want to be yours,” Chan breathes, clear and steady. “Want you t’have me.” 

Wonwoo’s skin burns so hot he feels like he’s evaporating. He’s going to evaporate. It’s a surge of heat, tingling at his cheeks and low in his belly. He’s trying so fucking hard to keep it together, every cell in his body quivering with self-restraint, eye contact becoming more difficult as the seconds tick by. But he rolls all of it up, tucking it in a corner to return to at a later date; instead, Wonwoo focuses on his breathing (in, out, in, out), palm sliding further up, over his slender waist and gentle slopes of muscle, thumb grazing past Chan’s nipple. 

He watches Chan’s lashes flutter, gaze unfocused and mouth going slack. Oh, fuck. Wonwoo could pass out from how quickly blood sinks from his brain to his groin. 

“Yeah?” Wonwoo’s voice is now undeniably wavering. 

“Yeah,” Chan sighs, “all yours. I’m choosing, hyung.”

And that’s enough. That’s enough, that’s enough, Wonwoo wants, and Chan wants, and he’ll give that to him. As long as Chan wants, he’ll want, too. 

Wonwoo slides his other palm up, and both hands splay their fingers across Chan’s bare skin, roaming in gentle oscillations. Chan grabs a hold of Wonwoo’s forearms, firm but not restrictive, head tipping up towards the ceiling, and swallows hard, lashes fluttering again. “Okay,” Wonwoo whispers, following the long, thin line of Chan’s throat, the way his Adam’s apple bobs, “look at me, Chan. C’mon.” 

When Chan complies, rosy-cheeked and eyes wet, Wonwoo tests out the word heavy on his tongue, letting it roll forward in another whisper: “Mine.” 

The reaction is almost visceral, the way Chan’s entire body shivers beneath his palms. “ _Hyung_ ,” he releases on a sob, hands grappling for purchase, “hyun—” 

“Mine,” Wonwoo repeats. Both thumbs graze over Chan’s nipples, and Chan jerks, lids dropping, and moans. “Right? You’re mine. Say it.” 

“Yours. Yours, I’m yours—” 

“Only. Only mine.” 

Chan’s beginning to pant, licks his lips and watches Wonwoo watch his tongue. “Only yours,” he breathes. 

Only Wonwoo’s. Only his. “Not,” Wonwoo says, “not—no one but me. Because you chose. Tell me.” 

“I chose.” 

He removes his hands from under Chan’s blouse, removing Chan’s hold on him by consequence. For a split moment, Chan blinks as if returning from somewhere else, almost confused, but snaps out it once Wonwoo stands, looking down at him, and says, “Take off your clothes. But—but keep your underwear on.” 

It’s another second until Chan takes a slight step back and obeys, flinging his shirt up and over his head from the collar at his nape. Wonwoo watches with bated breath, hands trembling. And Chan’s tremble, too—Wonwoo can see his fingers struggling to undo the button of his jeans—but Chan doesn’t look frightened or nervous. Just a little bit tired, a little bit empty, mostly aroused. Further into a space where Idol Lee Chan doesn’t exist, where there’s no expectations, no one fighting for agency over Chan’s person. He belongs. 

He belongs to Wonwoo. 

Blouse pooling on the rug, jeans kicked off of his ankles, Chan stands in Wonwoo’s room in his briefs, and Wonwoo stands before him, in a sleeveless sleep shirt and shorts. Wonwoo grants himself the opportunity to unabashedly admire Chan’s toned, slender form, no longer having to sneak peeks or drink it all in when he’s sure no one can see him leer. If this is his, he’s allowed to admire. Tousled hair playing in his lashes, rosy brown nipples, the muscle sculpted in his shoulders, arms, _thighs_. Perfect through and through, not a fault to be found. 

Chan likes it that way, Wonwoo knows. More than likes it— _needs_ this: perfection and nothing less. 

“Beautiful,” slips out, awed, after too many seconds of silence. Chan gets that a lot, of course, because he is beautiful and the world won’t let him forget it; a smile twitches at the corner of Chan’s mouth, a little cocky because he has rights to be, before he irons it out and waits further instruction. 

Right. Wonwoo’s been given the privilege to call the shots. It’s frightening how arousing that realization is, finally sinking into Wonwoo’s brain. This isn’t a dream or a fantasy anymore. Shit. 

“On the bed, “Wonwoo says, pivoting so Chan can crawl on without having to work around him. “On your back,” he specifies. 

He watches Chan snap into action, crawling onto the mattress and lying where Wonwoo once was. His eyes briefly close as he shoves his overgrown fringe out from in his lashes, raking through it a few times before it cascades off his forehead and over his temples. Again, Wonwoo forgets himself, stuck staring and amazed that this is actually happening. He’s fully hard in his shorts—has been since the moment he touched Chan’s bare midriff with his thumbs—and now that Chan is stripped down to his briefs, Wonwoo finds that Chan is as aroused about this as he is. 

Everything is going fuzzy. Chan is blinking languidly, pliant and presenting himself for the taking, docile in the way he was when he first said _trust_ and meant it. And it’s disgusting how often Wonwoo’s imagined this, having Chan, in so many different scenarios that this feels like an extension of his dreams. As Wonwoo drinks him in, there are hundreds of ideas that cross his mind, taking advantage of this moment to cloud his judgement; the night is theirs, and they won’t be disturbed. Not in the morning, not during their sleepy routine, not in the van. They have hours. 

But, if Wonwoo wants to be the man worth Chan’s trust, he needs to take this slow. This is uncharted territory for the both of them, and that leaves too much room to fuck up and therefore snatch away the only person Chan can safely lean on. This deserves care. 

Wonwoo sits on the edge of the bed, turned sideways to consider Chan. They meet eyes. “If,” he starts, then pauses to think, “I ever do anything you don’t want, tell me. Okay? I need you to tell me to stop.” 

Chan gives a slow nod. 

No partner he’s had has ever given him the privilege of being in control, but Wonwoo’s read and seen enough in his fifteen plus years of unmonitored internet access to have somewhat of an idea of how this works. That doesn’t mean he can’t make a mistake, though he can use his actual brain and not his lizard one (also known as: his painfully hard cock tenting the cotton of his sleep shorts) to establish safety measures. “Red is stop,” Wonwoo mutters, extending a hand to brush his fingertips down Chan’s stomach, where his rib cage juts out through his skin, watches and feels muscle jump under his touch. Chan takes a sharp breath in. “Yellow, slow down. Green, go. Okay?” 

Another careful nod. 

“Aloud.” 

“Okay.” 

Wonwoo slides his fingernails back down, right over the waistband of Chan’s briefs. “What’s your color?” 

Chan, seemingly distracted by Wonwoo’s touch, hesitates before saying, “Green.” 

Okay. Slow. One fantasy at a time, one that’ll give Chan the control to give control. 

Wonwoo removes his hand from Chan’s skin, sits on top of it in an attempt for self-restraint. “Okay,” Wonwoo breathes. “Want you to… to do something for me.” Another quick glance over Chan’s body, down to where his thighs splay, hard cock nestled where his pelvis creases, and then he’s meeting Chan’s gaze again. 

There’s a beat of silence, and Wonwoo takes this as quiet acceptance. Now Wonwoo can feel a jolt of fear twist in his gut, the anticipation of speaking aloud the things he’s kept locked away, leaving him vulnerable. It’s almost definite that Chan won’t turn him down—not as far as they’ve come, not after how many times Chan’s affirmed that this is how he wants their dynamic to shift—and still Wonwoo’s anxious mind tells him that maybe he’s misunderstood. Maybe what Chan actually wants is to shed his skin and be tucked under Wonwoo’s arm. Return to it in the morning. 

Rationally, that’s not the case (not _only_ that, at least), but Wonwoo hesitates nonetheless. 

It’s only until Chan seems to sense the tension, head shifting across the pillow to look at Wonwoo better, that he remembers that he can’t ruin this illusion for Chan; this has to feel real. Chan will have to wake and step back onto his stage, but tonight someone else—Wonwoo—has to take his place.

So, mustering all his strength, the Wonwoo of his fantasies, he says, “Show me how you touch yourself,” in as steady a voice as possible. “Hyung wants to see how you make yourself come. Can,” a quick swallow, “Can you do that for me?” 

A visible shudder rakes down Chan’s spine, his fingers curling into the sheets at his hip. Wonwoo fights his instinctual plea to look away, embarrassment singing his cheeks. Then, “Yes, seonsaengnim,” Chan whispers, and this time Wonwoo breaks and outwardly moans, eyes squeezing shut. 

He hears Chan huff a little laugh. “What? You like when I call you _seonsaengnim—_?” 

“Chan.” Of course he’d be outed as a pervert so quickly. Chan may be struggling, but he’s not a fucking idiot, not like Wonwoo, who seems to have forgotten that Chan can take one glance at him and read his mind, fish out his shameful pieces to use ag— 

“You said you wanted to watch me,” Chan is saying in a tone so unlike anything Wonwoo’s heard from him before. Breathy and sensual, a tiny bit taunting, “So open your eyes and watch.”

Wonwoo opens his eyes. He immediately has to distract himself from coming in his shorts by clamping down on his bottom lip, forceful enough that pain detracts from the deep throb of his cock because—Chan is looking at Wonwoo with intent, lids heavy, expression already well-fucked from the smudge of makeup around his eyes, contour streaked from dried rivulets; he has one hand sliding over his stomach, following the imaginary trail Wonwoo made, his other hand resting just below the modest swell of his pecs. 

Now that he’s staring, there’s no fucking way he can look anywhere else. Sungmin could burst through the door in the next few seconds and Wonwoo wouldn’t stir. If nothing else, Chan is a performer—in every sense of the word. Wonwoo’s dreamt of it, obviously: that instead of dancing to any girl group song at a random variety show, giggling at himself whilst he does it, his eyes sharpen and lower onto their prey (Wonwoo, always Wonwoo), the hosts are gone, and it’s just the studio, Chan, and Wonwoo. And maybe Chan’s following the choreography from a soloist—Wang Fei’s _Fantasy_ , or Sunmi’s _24 Hours_ —matching the sensuality that the artists oozed, hip rolls and slow, purposeful sauntering. 

Chan would give it his all, because he gives everything his all. 

Such as here, where Chan dips his fingers under the waistband of his briefs, tinted lips parting as he mumbles, “Sometimes I take my time,” Wonwoo isn’t sure whether to watch Chan’s lashes flutter or the shape of his fingers dipping even lower through the cotton, “but usually I have to hurry.” It’s Wonwoo that has to suppress a moan once it’s obvious that Chan gets a grip around the base of his cock, giving it a squeeze and sighing his relief. 

“What do you think about?” Wonwoo asks without second thought. 

Chan lifts his hips a little bit, using his free hand to shove his briefs down far enough to free his balls. And Wonwoo wasn’t expecting anything different, but Chan’s pretty there, too, cockhead flushed a swollen pink, length curving up towards his belly and longer than it is thick. And he’s waxed _everywhere_ to Wonwoo’s genuine surprise; this entire time he thought Chan was only clean shaven anywhere that can be seen, like if he wears low-cut jeans or small shorts. But, no, even his intimate areas are spotless, meticulously manicured. 

Wonwoo’s brain-mouth filter has officially fizzled out. “Chan, shit.” Still, he keeps his hands to himself, under his thighs and also away from his painfully hard cock. 

“It changes,” Chan answers, as if Wonwoo hadn’t said anything else, “used to be a faceless person.” He goes to spit in his hand, his precome too sparse to provide slip. Wonwoo waits until Chan positions himself to drip a wet glob onto his palm, then grabs Chan’s wrist and spits, too; Chan watches with a hint of surprise, albeit his eyes darken when Wonwoo pulls back and continues to watch. 

“Yeah?” Wonwoo urges, suddenly breathless. 

Chan wraps his messy hand around his cock again, starts to stroke slowly. “They’d,” he sighs, head tipping back on the pillow, “I’ll, like, haah—finger myself in the shower,” he twists his fist at the flared crown, voice stuttering into a gasp, “‘n pretend it was someone else…” Another heavy exhale, his chest heaving, mouth falling open. So fucking gorgeous. “Suh—sometimes it was you,” he works his length a little faster now, “fing-gering me. Your fingers are so long, so y—y’could get so _deep_ , hyung.” 

Wonwoo may be pretty good at delaying gratification, but he’s not a fucking monk. Chan’s words, quivering around moans, the way his throat and chest is flushing pink, that _mouth_ —Wonwoo frees a hand from its cage and presses the heel of his palm down onto his own erection, the slight relief punching a too-loud groan out of him. 

“Me?” he squeaks, an embarrassing sound. 

“Yeah... ‘nd you—you coming into my room,” his fist speeds up, twisting on the upstroke, sometimes pausing so he can thumb the leaking slit and whimper, “getting under the covers ah-and humping my—ass— _ah_ ,” he shoves his briefs to under his knees, making room to spread his thighs. 

“ _Fuck_ —” 

“Or I’d wake up with your mouth on my dick—” 

“Fuck,” Wonwoo repeats dumbly, gripping his cock through the material of his shorts. He could come just like this, he’s so turned on. “Then?” 

He knows he’s not going to last much longer when Chan starts thumbing his nipples with his free hand, hips lifting and pistoning up on every downstroke. Chan’s powerful thighs tense with the strain, back bowing so prettily. “You’d let me fuck your mouth,” Chan moans, several octaves higher, lighter, “and come down your throat.” 

Wonwoo’s resolve breaks, and he begins to stroke at his clothed length. He groans again, eyes shutting for a few seconds before he wills them open to keep an eye on Chan touching himself. Touching himself for _Wonwoo_. 

“You’d like that?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Chan pants, “then you’d fuh-fuck my face.” He lolls his head to one side, wet gaze eyeing Wonwoo palm himself. “Bet you’d be so big... y’look so fucking _big_ , hyung—” 

Wonwoo relinquishes his final dash of self-preservation and frees most of his dick from his shorts, palm dry but knowing he can get off with a few quick strokes regardless. And Chan’s responding whimper makes it worth it, losing some of that control. “Hyung?” he pants, eyes flickering from Chan’s face, to Chan playing with pert little nipples, to Chan fisting his cock. “I’m hyung now?” 

“So big, _seonsaengnim_ ,” Chan sobs. He’s getting close, Wonwoo can tell; his thrusts are losing their steady cadence, strokes going quick and sloppy, skin wet with a sheen of sweat. 

Unfortunately for Wonwoo, the _seonsaengnim_ , paired with Chan losing himself in pleasure, has his own climax catching him by the throat, a burst of strobe lights swirling his vision into a jumbled mess of color, of Chan. “Shit, shit,” Wonwoo gasps, his release pouring on and between the cracks of his fingers. He jerks a little, curling his shoulders, tries to get through the aftershocks rippling from the base of his spine to not miss when Chan comes, what expression he’ll wear. 

The periphery is fuzzy, but Wonwoo pries his eyes open and blinks Chan’s quivering shape into sight; it sounds like he’s attempting to vocalize, only for more moans, some slurred expletives, to slip out. And, fuck, does Chan look sexy, back curving deeper and deeper, chin tipped, fringe dampening against his temples, around his pink-tinged cheeks. “Hyu—seonsaengnim, please, please,” he cries, lids screwed shut. 

A pathetic dribble of come spurts from Wonwoo’s cockhead, and he gives his flagging erection a gentle squeeze. Mind still lost in the moment, sated in post-orgasm bliss, Wonwoo caves to his impulses. “You g’nna come for me?” he breathes. “Gonna come for master?” 

“Please,” Chan repeats, hand losing stamina. “Plea—” 

“Tell me who you belong to.” 

Chan’s eyes fly open, unfocused as he stares up at the ceiling. “You. Belong to you.” 

“No one else?” 

“Only _you_ —” 

Chan is quiet when he comes. His jaw goes slack, mouth open on a silent moan. Come paints his belly in thick ropes, and Chan’s thighs quiver as his orgasm works over him in waves. 

Breath hitched, silent for a few seconds longer, and then he huffs out, letting go of his cock. His muscles unfurl as he sinks into the mattress. 

Surreal. Incredibly surreal. 

The room falls quiet save for their soft panting. 

Wonwoo… is sobering quickly. He gives his body a little while longer to catch up, then wipes his come-covered hand onto his shorts, saying fuck it and kicking it off so that he’s left in his briefs. He carefully folds it to a clean side and goes ahead and wipes Chan’s belly and limp hand off, too. They’re gonna need something wet to wash properly, but it’ll have to do for now. With the tension dispelled, he’s feeling sleepy, lazy. 

But. Chan is going to need to wipe his makeup off before he goes to bed. It has to be past midnight already.

“Hey,” Wonwoo whispers, watching as Chan’s chest slows, eyes shut, “um. You should probably… wipe off your makeup.” 

Oh, god, it’s awkward. Or maybe Wonwoo’s the one who’s being awkward, but something is undeniably off. More so than this being uncharted territory; it’s as if the spell has been lifted, and the emotion prior to their shared arousal had only been shelved, soon to return. Except it’s here already—at least in Wonwoo’s jumbled mess of a— 

Chan sniffles. Sniffles again. Then, all at once, he’s crying. Crying that dumps into bawling. 

Wonwoo jerks to attention, frantic. “Chan,” he tries, “Chan, what’s—?” Chan drapes both of his forearms over his face and sobs harder, chest heaving. 

Right—this wasn’t just getting off. It wasn’t the end of their culminated tension, beginning from Chan’s twentieth to today. It was Chan’s freedom. Trusting. 

He tames his fear, the instinct to beg Chan to tell him what’s wrong, how he can make it better. Instead, he quietly and carefully tugs Chan’s briefs down and off of his legs, discarding it on the floor. 

As soon as Wonwoo crawls into the bed beside him, tugging the covers up so it drapes over both of their bodies, Chan rolls onto his side and curls into Wonwoo. Wonwoo immediately wraps him in an embrace, tugging him close. As close as he can, and then a little closer. 

“Sorry,” Chan says through his tears, face hidden in Wonwoo’s chest. “I ‘dunno why—‘m okay, I just—” 

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Wonwoo mutters, nosing into Chan’s hair. He strokes his back, from his nape to his lower back, in broad, soothing strokes. “You’re okay. You were great.” 

Chan’s sobs pass in a storm, thunderous to soft sniffles. “Sorry,” he repeats, much more controlled than before. “I’m being. Stupid.” 

“You’re not,” Wonwoo says. He tugs Chan flush to his side with the arm massaging into his bare skin. “Tell me if I did something wrong.” 

“You didn’t.” 

“If you regretting it, it’s oka—” 

“Hyung.” Chan leans his face away from Wonwoo’s chest to shoot him a teary, wet-faced glare. “I don’t regret it. I wanted to do this. For, like… years.” 

Years. Wonwoo refuses to dip too deep into that. He opts for wiping at Chan’s cheeks with his palms, thumb swiping under his puffy eyebags. It’s not often he sees Chan like this—weepy and snot-faced—and a protective urge tingles at the base of his skull. Still, he chases away his anger, his desire to throttle the vultures that pick at Chan’s carcass. Chan doesn’t need anger. Especially not now, fragile and rubbed raw. 

Be his peace. Provide him a place to shed his skin.

Protect him the way he wants to be protected. 

“Alright,” Wonwoo says, soft. “Sorry. You were so good. You know that, right?” 

Chan’s response is another sniffle, eyes averting. 

“Really, really good. Thank you.” 

Chan meets his gentle stare. “Thank you?” 

“For trusting me.” 

A laugh, almost incredulous. Chan pries Wonwoo’s hands from where they cradle his jaw, lies his cheek on Wonwoo’s chest. Wonwoo returns to massaging along his spine. 

“Is this what you want, too?” Chan asks, after what feels like several minutes of comfortable silence. Wonwoo hadn’t realized he was falling asleep until Chan’s voice stirs him awake. 

“Mm?” Wonwoo hums. 

“Like—me.” 

After letting the question absorb, filtering through his tired haze, Wonwoo nearly laughs his own incredulity. The golden question of the past two years. “Do I want you? Yeah,” he buries his nose into Chan’s hair again, catching hints of mint even through the layers of hairspray yet to be washed out, “if you let me.”— _I’ll have you forever_. 

Chan goes lax in Wonwoo’s arms, humming sweetly. “Want you to,” he mumbles. 

Absolutely surreal. But, if it exists inside their minds, it’s not a delusion. This is their own contract, willing and binding for as long as Chan dictates. Outside of Wonwoo’s bed, Wonwoo’s room, there’s hot air and reflected light—and they’ll have to be okay with it for however long it lasts. 

But this is no mirage. 

“Thank you,” Wonwoo breathes, long after Chan’s breaths have fallen steady.


	4. you say you want your freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trust is terrifying. Wonwoo is standing in the common room of a spotless apartment, folds of a brown box torn open. He’s standing and his head is spinning, because he isn’t breathing and hasn’t been for nearly half a minute. 
> 
> The collar in his hand—a glossy, brown leather one, with gold embellishments, a matching D-ring the size of the face of a watch—weighs 100 grams at most, but in his hands feels 3 kilos heavy. Ten kilos, even. 
> 
> There are so many avenues in which he can interpret this that his mind draws a blank. He isn’t thinking. He’s filled with thousands of thoughts that all negate one another, leading him to a dead-end.  
> Mental purgatory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter cw: virginity/purity kink, diet/food talk 
> 
> Now there you go again  
> You say you want your freedom  
> Well who am I to keep you down  
> It's only right that you should play it the way you feel it  
> But listen carefully to the sound  
> Of your loneliness  
> \- _Dreams, Bastille & Gabrielle Aplin_

Wonwoo and Minjun were unusually similar. That’s a big reason why Wonwoo felt at peace with him, relaxed as they shared comfortable silence in his or Minjun’s bedroom. His two other childhood friends, Jaeho and Hyunwoo, slipped into Wonwoo’s mundane life easily, too—but it was Minjun that he genuinely felt he could say anything and he wouldn’t be judged, demeaned, or shunned for it. (Minjun always shared the same opinions, anyway.) 

They sort of looked like cartoon characters next to one another. At least, Wonwoo thought so—and they were occasionally teased for it. Because where Wonwoo was a tall and lanky kid, Minjun stopped growing at 162cm and stood twice as wide. Just two, awkward kids with social anxiety, matching glasses, and similar tastes that they knew they couldn’t admit publicly (see: bisexual and… controversial). 

Wonwoo has a lot of regrets. No surprise there. And it’s yet another story to end with nothing but regret, a sprinkle of nostalgia. If Wonwoo wasn’t such a fuck up, he and Minjun would’ve become business partners. Reporters. Event planners. Fuck, maybe Minjin would’ve gone into game development and Wonwoo would operate as his finance analyst or social media manager. In the end, the only one that conquered their anxieties, their low self worth, was Minjun. Conquered wasn’t the best word for it, but, inside Wonwoo’s fuck-up brain, getting your doctorate degree and working in healthcare was conquering your shortcomings. 

Jaeho moved to Seoul after he managed to get into SNU, had job offers already waiting for him. Hyunwoo became a high school teacher, allegedly trying to work his way up to a professor at his university. Maybe he is one already. Wonwoo doesn't know; he hasn’t spoken to him in years. Neither Jaeho nor Hyunwoo. 

The last he talked to Minjun was… shit— _years_ ago. Their final KaTalk message in the chat room was from Minjun, a single sad face emoticon, when Minjun asked _will you be back in the city in oct?_ And Wonwoo answered, _Can’t. Comeback season._ And it’s not as if that was a lie—comeback season actually _was_ in full swing, and Wonwoo was (and is) lucky to get more than two weeks off in a year, not consecutively—but also. Wonwoo could’ve said more. Done more. Asked Minjun how work was going, if his wife and kid were doing well, that he _missed_ him. Instead, he let his shame and regret snuff his one, good, true friend. The only person that knew he hated his fucking job and hated himself for being too weak to conquer his mental demons like Minjun did. 

The only person that knew he fucked men, dreamt about tying them to a bed and spitting in their face, a possessive hand curled around their jaw and cock deep in their ass. 

So it comes as a surprise, when Wonwoo checks his phone and their chat room has risen from the dead. He’s still parked in the lot of Seoul’s _Kolon Sport_ studio, where he dropped Chan off to shoot a commercial for their new winter release. They were slow getting ready, barely making it to the six a.m. hair and makeup calltime. Chan leaped out of the van and rushed through the open backdoors as soon as they pulled in, Youngjin and (an annoyed) Sungmin already there awaiting his arrival outside. 

Wonwoo makes the mistake of checking his notifications right before taking off after him. 

**Park Minjun**

How are things going? 

Are you okay? [5:52 a.m.]

And it gives him pause. Longer than a pause—an entire intermission. It’s just that... several things. One, it’s an odd thing to suddenly ask, as if something has happened that everyone but Wonwoo knows about, and, two, it’s unsettling to hear from Minjun after nearly half a decade of nothing. Wonwoo was about a year and change into working for Chan when the chat room was laid to rest. 

This is unnerving. Is he asking about Chuseok? 

Sungmin begins to approach the van in Wonwoo’s periphery, and that alone is what spurs him to hurriedly tap a message back and shove his phone into his coat’s pocket. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

What? Why wouldn’t I be? [6:00 a.m.] 

The day has only just begun and it already feels like a long, strange fever dream. Minjun messaging him out of nowhere with cryptic questions that he _has_ to know is not good for Wonwoo’s anxiety; waking up, piecemeal, before his four a.m. alarm can go off to Chan’s warm, naked body pressed to his, skin so smooth and soft against Wonwoo’s hairy chest and legs; Chan stirring as if sensing that Wonwoo has woken up, whispering, “ _hyung_?” before, somehow, their lips meeting. 

—Wonwoo sleepily licking back into Chan’s mouth, holding his jaw in place so he can kiss Chan the way he wants to kiss, make him follow his lead. Kissing and kissing and kissing to make up for lost time, the entire year that Wonwoo could’ve and should’ve, but didn’t. Mumbling, “That’s right, Channie, th’s a good boy,” in his sleep-raspy voice as Chan rutted against Wonwoo’s thigh. Until he shuddered and came with a tiny little whine that had Wonwoo dizzy with arousal. 

“What do we say?” Wonwoo had whispered with his mouth to Chan’s heat-flushed cheek, curling his fingers possessively into his jaw. “When people do something nice for you? What do you say?” 

From that close up, he saw Chan’s eyes flutter closed, saw him panting softly as he came down from his orgasm. “Th’nk you,” he breathed. “Th’nk you, ssaem.” 

It was what Chan needed, he thinks. Because the grief and despair of Chan from the night prior unraveled with his release. Wonwoo felt Chan’s tense muscles unfurl with his descent from climax, gave lazy kisses whenever Chan tipped his head back and presented his mouth for the taking. From there, Chan snapped back into himself, returning to the skin that he left at Wonwoo’s bedroom door. 

He’s ‘Lee Chan’ again, not Lee Chan, because he has to be. Because he has obligations as an idol, whether there’s an upcoming comeback or not. 

That’s a part of him he cannot— _refuses to_ —erase. 

And Wonwoo’s fighting to remain level-headed. He’s living out the daydream that has been haunting him since childhood for the first time in his entire life, and it leaves him giddy, drunk off of power. It’s not about him, it’s not, _it’s not_ , but however often he may try, he cannot escape that visceral surge of arousal. The way his brain goes fuzzy with haloed light and cotton balls when Chan lies submissively in his hold and breathes desperate _thank you_ , _thank you_ , _thank you_ ’s. How Chan has given his body and soul to him, like Wonwoo did something to deserve that. 

He hasn’t. 

Wonwoo’s mind and his body are two different entities, though. At least, they feel like it. He can tell his skin to stop tingling, fingers to stop trembling, but that’s something he has no control over. Chan gives him a glassy-eyed look, mouth slack and fringe wet with exertion, and Wonwoo thinks _it’s not about you_ as his cock swells up in his briefs. 

Even when Chan, showered and dressed and waiting for him in the common space, caught Wonwoo’s hesitance, his guilt in his downcast eyes and in the way he shuffled by him, said, “I meant it. I don’t regret any of it, because I meant it. Did you?” 

Even then, Wonwoo’s mind told him, _it’s not about you_. Aloud, Wonwoo squeaked, “Yeah. I did,” in a tone way too uncertain to express just how much Wonwoo meant it. Wanted it. 

Wants it. 

Dangerous. Chan has no clue, and that’s dangerous. 

“Then you will?” Chan had asked. He stood at the foyer, body blocking the door albeit he wasn’t trying to trap Wonwoo in (he felt trapped, regardless). Chestnut hair damp from his shower, draped in a grey sweatshirt and jeans he wore to change out of once at the studio. “You’ll have me?” 

He’ll have him. God, he’ll have him, any part of Chan that he’s willing to give. He’ll devour him, if he asks. 

Wonwoo’s mouth was terrifyingly dry when he answered, weak and shaky compared to Chan (always weak compared to Chan), “I’ll have you.” 

He’s not sure what that even entails yet. 

Wonwoo pushes the door open before Sungmin can tap his knuckles against the tinted window. 

“I have it covered today,” Sungmin tells him, tone clipped, “so take care of whatever needs to get done.” 

A pause. Wonwoo’s leg is already dangling out of the van. “Who mandated this? Am I on probation, or something?” 

Sungmin’s response is automatic, “He’s in a transitioning period right now. As PR,” he punctuates _PR,_ as if Wonwoo has somehow forgotten, “I need to make sure we can keep face. Make sure things go smoothly. You know.” 

He doesn’t know.

“And how long are you supposed to be helping him ‘save face’?” Wonwoo doesn’t bother to mask the contempt. This is fucking stupid. If anything, Chan needs a constant during this ‘transition’; everything about his life changes day by day by week by year—the only part that hasn’t is Wonwoo. 

But—right. Their concern doesn’t lie in how Chan is holding up mentally. Their concern lies in whether his inner turmoil leaks out for hundreds of cameras and swarming vultures to see. This isn’t for his sake, and it never has been. 

Disgusting. Wonwoo’s tongue tastes like ashes. 

“Just today and tomorrow,” Sungmin says. “The evenings are all you, so,” he reaches out to pat Wonwoo’s shoulder, as condescending as it was the last time he did it, “he’s all yours to babysit once schedules are complete, don’t worry.” 

“Right,” Wonwoo says, automatic. Babysit. 

“Right,” Sungmin parrots, “I’m sure there’s much to get done back at the dorms. Get to it, and I’ll call when I drop him off.” 

Then he’s off. Wonwoo watches dumbly as Sungmin disappears inside the backdoor of the building, Youngjin holding it open for him before taking curt glances left and right, tugging it closed. He continues to sit there and stare, disoriented, until his phone lights up through the fabric of his slacks. 

Wonwoo retrieves it and looks at the notification. 

**Park Minjun**

A coworker was looking at some dumb celeb gossip site and mentioned Chan. 

Saw a picture of you with him. Said he’s been in some trouble. 

You okay? [6:12 a.m.]

That only took five months for him to catch-up. Well—Minjun’s never been the gossipy type. Nor has Wonwoo, until his job sort of mandated him to be conscious of such nonsense. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

If you’re asking if my job is safe, it is. 

Shitty situation, but it happened a while ago and we’re improving. [6:15 a.m.]

It’s not a lie; albeit Chan’s reputation is still tarnished, the hate online has diminished dramatically from where it was over the summer. Will he ever return to his former glory? Wonwoo wishes he has the answer for that. Right now, he has no fucking idea what’s going to happen in the next half-hour, let alone the next three months. Being put on a two-day, unofficial probation reflects how sudden changes occur, here. 

**Park Minjun**

Good about your job being safe. 

I was more asking about you. How are you and the kid managing? It looked serious. 

Is he handling it ok? [6:18 a.m.] 

The kid. Wonwoo’s stomach twists into knots, thumbs beginning to tremble a little where they hover over his phone screen. He wants to tell Minjun no, not a kid, he’s an adult, if nothing else but to placate his own shame, but. But, in comparison to Minjun and Wonwoo, yeah, it’s not too far-fetched to call Chan a kid. He’s one year out from his twentieth. Wonwoo and Minjun have stepped into their thirties. 

He refuses to think too hard about that, less he talks himself out of the promise he made to Chan earlier that morning. Chan needs him. Chan needs a safety net. 

Right? 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

He’s alright.

His dad was pissed, though. Barely messages or calls. 

But that’s a blessing in disguise, because he’s a massive fucking asshole. 

Worse than Yoon ssaem kk [6:23 a.m.] 

The response is automatic. 

**Park Minjun**

Worse than Yoon? No way kk

Blessing in disguise for sure. 

But 

How are you? [6:24 a.m.] 

That. Is not something he wants to get into at the moment. He’s sitting in the parking lot with his foot still dangling out of the van, and, as Sungmin none-too-kindly stated, there are errands to be done. Groceries to buy, mail to pick up—something that Wonwoo had planned to do during Chan’s brand ambassador event later that afternoon. Life’s uncertainties. 

He’ll answer Minjun later. When he’s got free time. He needs a few hours to decide whether he wants to be truthful, apologize for being a horrible friend, ask about Minjun’s current job and family, or none of the above. Things are weird today. 

Wonwoo tugs his leg into the van and closes the door. With a turn of the ignition, the engine purrs alive. 

Pretty much every season is diet season, especially when Chan is fresh from a recent comeback, but the current rule is to keep him trim to quote-unquote ‘advertise the products well’. Why Chan needs to be 52kg to sell fucking sneakers or oversized winter coats, Wonwoo has still yet to figure out—but that’s the rule. And he has to follow them or risk a scolding from Park, or put Chan in the ring of fire. 

Wonwoo drives to _Orga Whole Foods_. Overpriced as all hell, yeah, though now that Chan no longer has to subsist on chicken breast and applesauce—since those were the only foods he could afford while paying back his fees to Kaleidoscope—they weren’t going to be cheap about his meals. Daepyonim is forcing him to survive with a daily caloric amount less than what toddlers intake? Fine. But, Chan is going to eat the freshest cherry tomatoes Seoul has to offer. 

So, _Orga Whole Foods_ it is. 

Wonwoo grabs himself a basket at the front and makes a beeline for the refrigerated foods. He’s scrolling through the list on his phone while he walks, using his periphery to dodge other customers. _Extra-firm tofu, bean sprouts, cabbage, strawberry applesauce unsweetened, banana applesauce unsweetened, chicken stock_. . . then there’s assorted fruits and vegetables. He can probably pan-fry up some of the tofu, or bake it to a golden crisp. It’s not going to be very edible without oil or some kind of breading or sauce to dip it in, though. 

The rules can be bent a bit. Use a little bit of sesame oil, store-bought ssamjang, and dip the tofu in that before baking it and it’ll be good. Wonwoo’s just going to have to cut back on his other food groups. He can bake some carrots and asparagus, too, sprinkle black pep—

Wonwoo is standing in front of the freezer with the assortment of tofu, staring blankly at his notes app, when the screen changes to a selca of Soonyoung and the phone buzzes in his palm. 

As if on reflex, Wonwoo taps the green phone icon and puts the screen to an ear. “Soonyoungie?” 

There’s a short rustling noise before Soonyoung answers, a tad loud, “ _Wonwoo hyung? Hey_.” Other than the initial movement, there is no background noise on his end. 

“Hey.” The greeting lilts up in question. Confusion. Wonwoo takes a quick glance at the date on his phone before returning it to his ear. “You’re in Gyeonggi.” _Why are you calling me while celebrating Chuseok_? Lies underneath. 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Soonyoung says, “ _We just had breakfast. Now we’re, uh,_ ” some more rustling, “ _My parents and Mingyu are out on the veranda. Drinking tea._ ” 

Wonwoo uses a leg to pry the freezer door open, then sits his basket on the floor to pick up a package of pre-baked tofu. Barbeque flavor. Huh. He turns it around to survey the nutrition facts. “And you’re… calling me?” 150 per serving. Four servings, for this tiny thing. Ssamjang it is. He returns the tofu to its spot, grabs the one he wants and puts it in the basket. 

“ _I wanted to tell you how service and dinner went yesterday_ ,” Soonoyung says. “ _You have time?_ ” 

Ah. Right. Their previous conversation feels so long ago, despite not much time passing between then and now. Anything before last night has dulled, faded into the crevices of his mind.

“I do. Chan is shooting a commercial. I’m at _Orgo_.” He grabs the basket handle and shuffles along the aisle. “Mingyu won them over with his dreamy eyes?” 

Soonyoung laughs, a quiet giggle, like he’s trying to keep it down. Wonwoo still can’t hear anything in the background. “ _Yeah,_ ” he says. “ _Well. Not at first. My grandparents warmed up to him before my parents did, if you can believe that_.” 

“So, that means they warmed up.” 

“ _Luck is on my side, I ‘spose. Things were really awkward at first, but y’know Mingyu. A natural comedian._ ” 

“That’s one word for him.” 

“ _I introduced him as my boyfriend, things got weird, ‘n then he made these_ really _awful jokes that no one would laugh at but people over thirty._ ” 

“Ouch.” 

" _Okay, sorry, sorry! No one over forty_ ,” Soonyoung doesn’t sound very apologetic. “ _Anyway. My mom pulled me away during dinner and told me she’d always suspected that I was. Like. Gay_.” 

Wonwoo falters in the produce section, letting families weave around him. It’s not him, and it’s not his mom tugging him aside to tell him she’s always known, but—and curse his vivid imagery sometimes—he can hallucinate how that felt. How he’d feel. The tremors, the walls closing in, his mom’s disgusted face twisting into an ugly watercolor as it mixes in his vision. And he’s been spoiled already, Soonyoung’s story ends well. In another reality, Wonwoo’s would’ve, too. 

This isn’t that reality. 

“Yeah?” His mouth has that ashy taste again. He wets his lips. 

“‘ _Nd that they were prepared for that. Me, like. Coming home with a man._ ” 

If Wonwoo didn’t know Soonyoung, it’d sound like a lie. Or a hyper-realistic dream that Soonyoung had mistaken for a memory. “That’s why they weren’t upset?” 

“I _’m assuming so. She never finished th’thought. Said that she was happy that I brought someone home at all, since I’m so damn busy_ ,” he laughs. “ _Her words, not mine. But she’s right. Work is stressful. I’m lucky Mingyu is one, stubborn bastard_.” More laughter, shy and stupidly in love. 

And. Wonwoo’s happy for him. He is. Soonyoung is one of the few friends he has here in Seoul, one that shares his attraction to men and doesn’t hate him for it. He has to be happy for him. 

Still, he registers the sharp jab in between his ribs for what it is: jealousy.

“And your sister?” 

“ _Loved him before he even opened his mouth_ ,” Soonyoung says, humored as if recalling, “ _He has that effect on women_.” 

Wonwoo knows that all too well. The rare and sacred evenings he managed to grab drinks with Soonyoung and Mingyu, the steady wave of university students gliding over, trying their luck with a gay man. Entertaining at first, obnoxious after having to pause conversation every half hour for Mingyu to chase them away. 

“Cool.” Realizing he’s been standing like an idiot in the middle of the produce section, he meanders over to the bundles of asparagus. “Great. I’m—yeah. Great.” 

Soonyoung’s line is muffled with more movement until it quiets again. If Wonwoo strains, he can hear the joyed chatter of a happy family, the man their son loves. Could also be an illusion. 

“ _Yeah_ ,” Soonyoung says, “ _It is cool. Super cool._ ” 

Wonwoo doesn’t know what else to say, so he says nothing. This time there isn’t the notion of walls closing in on him. No mindless daze, no knees buckling. Soonyoung’s good news changes nothing about the course of his life. Nothing changes about his life. Nothing changes about his miserable fucking life. Maybe that’s the problem.

Because he and Soonyoung are no longer the same. This is the road at which they diverge: Soonyoung tucking himself beneath Mingyu’s arm, feeling the vibrations of Mingyu’s laughter as if it were his own; then, on the other side, his mother relieved for his love. His grandparents cooing. His sister enthralled. 

Wonwoo, in Seoul, without friends or a future. The family’s shame. 

His phone buzzes in his palm. He tilts the phone away to look at the notification. 

**Park Minjun**

Wonwoo... 

Did I scare you away? [7:49 a.m.]

“ _Hello?_ _Wonwoo_ _hyung?_ ” 

  
  


Bubblegum pop wasn’t the only thing Chan did. It’s just what helped gain him traction with the 14-21 demographic. 

Park doesn’t give many favors, but twenty was a great year financially for Chan; that’s how he earned the chance to perform contemporary dance as part of his setlist. And Wonwoo had seen him dance the way his parents raised him to, seen him during dance covers and freestyle. He’d never seen Chan like he did then: on a big screen, draped in sheer pink that gave way to hints of skin, maybe a nipple or two, if you looked hard enough. 

In a room colored completely white, violins sang a gorgeous duet with piano—and Chan’s body rippled and swayed like Yeongsan river. But cleaner, prettier, refracted light against his blouse shimmering diamonds. It was right there, planted against the outside of Kaleidoscope’s building: Lee Chan in his most natural state. 

Dancing. 

The product was always gorgeous. Chan would rather burn himself alive than make mistakes on the final stage. That was why behind the smoke and mirrors, beyond fractionated light and hot air, Chan was his own bomb, detonating at will. Low intake, few breaks, frequent outbursts and grunts of frustration. (Wonwoo had to force Chan to tug on the hem of his shirt instead of his hair, when it’d become a habit that had him losing way too many strands for Wonwoo’s liking.) 

Wonwoo didn’t understand _you are your worst critic_ until Chan. At least, he thought he did, considering his teens were filled with hopelessness, self-hatred, only to get worse into his twenties. 

It ran deeper. Far enough out that it dipped over the horizon—and then farther. 

Wonwoo had many theories, none of which he could definitively say was true: Maybe this was Chan’s way of coping, measuring down to the miniscule of details. How wide to stretch his lips in a smile, how hard to laugh, what expressions to make, when to make them, and how long to maintain. Maybe Chan has been this way since birth, and the reason Wonwoo saw it as a concern was because he hadn’t seen the progression. Maybe Chan was reflecting someone else’s behavior. 

Maybe his father’s voice became his voice. _He doesn’t celebrate expectations_ to _I don’t celebrate expectations._ _You need to lose 4kg_ to _I need to lose 4kg_. 

_You’re an ungrateful brat, a fucking embarassment, how could you risk your entire fucking career like that, you’re a slacker, you don’t care about your life or ours, stupid, stupid boy_ — 

I’m an ungrateful brat. I’m a fucking embarassment. I’m a slacker. I’m stupid, stupid, _stupid_. Work harder and maybe he’ll call you back, work harder and maybe he’ll call you back, work harder and maybe he’ll call you back, chart higher and maybehe’llcallyouback. 

Wonwoo saw it. He doesn’t think Chan wanted him to. Lack of trust or too much shame, who knows. But, after being ignored for months, Chan’s mother playing telephone for one-sided conversations—the array of unanswered calls on Chan’s phone—Chan was busy with a schedule, Wonwoo was backstage, and there it was, already read. 

**appa**

If you don’t care, I don’t either. 

Ungrateful is not the word. You’re disturbed 

It was not only your reputation you destroyed. You made us a joke 

Stop calling [8:23 p.m.] 

As if under gravitational pull, Wonwoo looked up from the screen, eyes settling where Chan stood, sweet and pliable, folding when folded, everybody’s for the taking. 

  
  


Errands pass in cotton balls. Fuzzy white blurs. He finishes the grocery shopping, grabs the package he should’ve gotten two days ago from the front office, and puts the food away in the dorm kitchen, leaves Chan’s mail by his closed bedroom door. 

He switches into more comfortable clothes—a plain tee and some sweatpants—and, in between meal-prepping for the rest of Chan’s week, picks up his phone and taps messages on KaTalk. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

I’m OK.

How’s the family? [11:22 a.m.] 

**Park Minjun**

Doing well. Everyone is here for Chuseok. Yeona is four now. Can you believe it? 

But

Are you back in town? [12:31 p.m.] 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Wow 

We’re getting old kkk [1:11 p.m.]

No, busy with work, couldn’t make it. [1:14 p.m.]

**Park Minjun**

We really are kkk 

Aww. Your job is unethical kk [2:02 p.m.]

Haven’t seen you back home in forever. 

You don’t have to see your parents, you know. You can come spend a few days at mine. Yeona and Yeoreum would love to meet you. 

Consider it. No stress. [2:46 p.m.] 

⬳

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Where are you? Sungmin kidnap you? [9:12 p.m.]

**Lee Chan**

studio 

sungmin couldnt wait to get rid of me wdym kk 

Youngjin hyung is gonna drive me back in two hours dw [9:16 p.m.] 

It takes Wonwoo an embarrassingly long time to figure out what ‘dw’ stands for. 

  
  


He’s teetering into sleep in his bed, under the duvet, when a warm body crawls underneath and immediately curves into his side. Wonwoo dips his nose into damp hair as if by instinct. Mint conditioner. 

“G’d day?” He rasps, arm scooping Chan closer. 

“With Sungmin? Fuck no.” 

“That’s Sungm’n _hyung_ t’you.” 

“Sungminie.” 

Wonwoo snorts, despite himself. “Disrespectful.” He jabs a few fingers into Chan’s ribs, and Chan snickers while wiggling away. 

They settle down. Eyes still closed, Wonwoo traces Chan’s bicep, gently sliding up to the hem of his sleeve, then back down again. Chan lets out a little sigh, head shifting further onto Wonwoo’s chest. 

“At the dance studio, huh,” Wonwoo mumbles. There’s an unspoken question in his voice, a _why are you still dancing when you’re on indefinite hiatus?_

Chan, perceptive as ever, hears what’s being asked. “Jun hyung ‘n I can still record dance covers. They want me to be more active on the Youtube channel.” 

Wonwoo hums. He remembers then that he never asked Chan what the meeting entailed, aside from the news that his comeback was postponed. He’s yet to receive an update on the calendar for what they’ve planned for the next few months, too; decisions are made quickly, yeah, but he expected to be given more details than loose demands to keep Chan under surveillance. A manager on paper, kept on a leash and in a cage of his own. 

“We’re filming a few in a row,” Chan says into his chest. He has a palm rubbing subtle circles onto Wonwoo’s abdomen, where he tenses on reflex. “And some behind the scenes vlogs. ‘M gonna be late tomorrow.” 

Right. Sungmin still has Chan for another day. Wonwoo’s going to have to figure out what to do with himself while Chan’s busy placating his fanbase. Clean the dorm, maybe. A deep-cleaning, so Chan can return to a spotless room, eat some homemade food. 

Wonwoo hums again. They return to comfortable silence. Chan nuzzles closer, palm going still where it lies, and Wonwoo continues drawing those invisible lines up and down his arm, then over his waist, onto his back. A leg flops over and across his, and Wonwoo huffs a laugh. “Comfortable?” he asks. 

“Very.” 

“Good.” 

He listens to Chan’s soft breaths, starts to knead his knuckles up between his shoulder blades. Tight knots. Gotta unroll them. 

“Hyung?” 

Wonwoo noses into the crown of his head. Warm mint, soft locks like feathers tickling his cheeks. “Channie?” 

“Can I sleep here tonight?” 

A pause. What a silly question. The stupidest fucking question he’s ever heard. Wonwoo bites back his smile, muttering, “Whenever you want,” and means it. Means it with his entire fucking soul. “Your choice.” 

Chan melts at that. Wonwoo feels his body go lax in his semi-embrace, a sigh releasing over his bare collarbones, into the material of his sleep shirt. He doesn’t know who falls asleep first, but he doesn’t stop massaging at those knots until the room goes foggy—then dark. 

  
  


**Lee Chan**

Got a package coming around 1 

Get it please thank you [7:12 a.m.] 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Sure. [7:14 a.m.]

⬳

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Thanks. I do appreciate the offer. 

I don’t think I’m ready to go back right now. I know you say no stress but it is stressful. 

We haven’t seen each other in a long time. [9:02 a.m.]

**Park Minjun**

Hey, I totally get it Wonu 

I’m sorry for not keeping in touch. 

I’m OK with catching up like this if that’s what you want to do. If not, I get that too [9:26 a.m.] 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Thank you 

This is fine

What have you been up to in my absence?

Kk [10:56 a.m.]

  
  


Trust is interesting. Wonwoo knows objectively that to everyone it holds different weight—that for some people, delving vulnerable information about themselves is not a trust thing as much as it is mundane conversation. In reality, it perplexes him. What takes him years to even _consider_ admitting takes somebody else just a fraction of thought. 

Like when Soonyoung had spoken to him for the first time, when Wonwoo was still relatively new to managing Chan, and Soonyoung had given him and his back-up dancers a choreography to practice. He doesn’t remember the precise details, but what sticks to this day, haunting him whenever he thinks of his friends and family back home, is Soonyoung’s, “My ex helped me with this choreo. Before we broke up; I don’t think I’d listen to a damn word he said if we had to work together now.” Said on a laugh, in a casual lilt, as if Wonwoo was someone he knew his entire life and not just for one hour. 

_He_. Not listen to a damn word _he_ said. 

“You probably don’t know him,” Soonyoung said. He sat next to where Wonwoo was couched, against the far wall so he could supervise seventeen year-old Chan bark orders at the other dancers. “He works for PS, too. Kang Junho.” 

Wonwoo’s throat felt dry. If Soonyoung noticed the stunned expression on Wonwoo’s face, he didn’t show it. “I—don’t.” 

“Figured. He’s an asshole, so it’s probably for the best.” Another laugh, chubby cheeks displacing into his eyes, ink-black hair drenched in sweat. 

Wonwoo will never understand it. Four years into their friendship, Soonyoung remains an enigma. How can anyone trust him with that sort of information? What if Wonwoo told other people that Soonyoung was gay? What would’ve happened to Soonyoung’s job if Wonwoo was some homophobic asshole with a chip on his shoulder? None of these were questions that seemed to cross Soonyoung’s mind. He looked into Wonwoo’s—a stranger’s—weary eyes, opened his mouth, and said his ex-boyfriend was a _he_. 

It could be that Wonwoo has a low sense of self-worth. Anyone showing kindness to him with no mention of reciprocation terrifies him. Deeply, deeply confuses him, too. 

To the point that when Chan snuggled up to him for the first time _ever_ , seeking comfort after a day of being criticized by staff and the other managers, Wonwoo genuinely wondered if Chan had mistaken him for somebody else. That maybe Chan was sleepwalking, and he used to snuggle up in bed with his dad on bad days. Wonwoo was nobody and Chan was everything to everyone—a superstar, radiating talent from every pore on his gorgeous body. 

Wonwoo was the nameless face caught in fan site photos, often blurry and off-center. Summary of his life. So—

 **Lee Chan**

i’ll probably be back before midnight 

open the package for me [7:01 p.m.] 

Trust is terrifying. Wonwoo is standing in the common room of a spotless apartment, folds of a brown box torn open. He’s standing and his head is spinning, because he isn’t breathing and hasn’t been for nearly half a minute. 

The collar in his hand—a glossy, brown leather one, with gold embellishments, a matching D-ring the size of the face of a watch—weighs 100 grams at most, but in his hands feels 3 kilos heavy. Ten kilos, even. 

There are so many avenues in which he can interpret this that his mind draws a blank. He isn’t thinking. He’s filled with thousands of thoughts that all negate one another, leading him to a dead-end.

Mental purgatory. 

Wonwoo runs a thumb over the buttery material. Fingers the gold, mushroom rivets punched in around the ring, down the length. It’s thick and expensive, well-crafted. Aside from the receipt and packing peanuts, there’s nothing else left in the box. He’s given no answers. 

Time passes like a rush of water, each minute ticking in second-long increments. 

Funnily enough, what breaks through the thick curtain of fog filling between his ears is: this can’t be for a dog. For several reasons. Chan wouldn’t adopt a dog without informing him; Chan wouldn’t be _able_ to adopt a dog without Wonwoo finding out; most importantly, Chan is afraid of animals. Most _most_ importantly, Chan has no time to tend to a dog, and Wonwoo doesn’t leave his side, so he can’t, either. 

So. 

Wonwoo knows that if he allows it to filter in from his subconscious, he’ll realize what this is for. He’s in shock, but he isn’t fucking stupid. The pet theory was a self-made distraction, a defense mechanism to stop his body from going into hyperdrive and shutting down on him. 

There’s no other rational explanation. Holy fuck. 

Holy fuck. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Chan. 

What is this [7:23 p.m.]

It takes him two minutes to type those four words, because his fingers are trembling. The tremors rake down his arms, settling awkwardly inside of his lungs. He can hear himself breathing behind his eardrums, which is only exacerbating the panicked trembling. Chan is busy with filming, so of course he isn’t going to respond right away, but the longer Wonwoo stares at the unmoving chat thread the harder his heart hammers up through the muscle and skin of his chest, a pulse he can feel in his jugular—in his cock. 

Holy fuck. Wonwoo plops down onto the couch, leaning as far into the plush cushions as he can. The adrenaline that rushes into his veins is so overwhelming it’s as if he’s coming down from a three-kilometer sprint. And that’d make sense, if not for the way his blood, his adrenaline, carries their warmth between his legs. Hard. He’s hard. Rock hard in his sweats, the material unforgiving as it clings to the thick girth of him. 

Again—time flickers by like a highlight reel. Wonwoo’s thoughts hop from one scenario to the next, none of which are helping with how painfully erect he is. And when his phone vibrates in his palm, Wonwoo shoots up, using one hand to tap the screen while the other clings to the—the collar. _A collar._

**Lee Chan**

what does it look like 

pretty? [7:54 p.m.] 

Wonwoo reads the messages five times before his lust-ridden brain processes what’s being asked. He’s still thinking of what he could possibly say to that when another one pops up. 

**Lee Chan**

am i yours? [7:57 p.m.] 

It’s amazing he can type at all with how his whole body shivers. Another wave of heat rolls over him, and he lets out a tiny groan.

 **Jeon Wonwoo**

Yes

If you’re still giving yourself to me. [8:06 p.m.]

The response is immediate. 

**Lee Chan**

then make me yours. [8:06 p.m.] 

Wonwoo can’t. He can’t restrain himself anymore. Dropping his phone, Wonwoo hurriedly shoves down his sweats by the waistband, freeing his cock to spring up and slap against the indent of his pelvis. When he gets a shaky hand around the base and gives a squeeze, it’s as if his muscles thank him, unfurling in relief. He hisses between his teeth. 

It’s not his proudest moment. He doesn’t have a lot of those, but this one is a top contender. He fucks his fist on the common room couch, meeting each downstroke with the rut of his hips, grip tightening on the collar like a lifeline—and he comes mortifyingly fast, head fogged-up and heavy with the implication. The collar acting as the bridge between Chan’s desire to be owned and Wonwoo’s desire _to_ own. Chan with it around his neck, eyes going round as they stare up at Wonwoo in lust—in submission—in trust. 

As embarrassing as this may be, it’s probably for the best. Getting one orgasm out of his system before Chan returns will help clear out the haze. He won’t be led by his unbridled arousal and make this about him. It’s not about him. Wonwoo, gasping for breath, eyes on his come-soiled hand as his dick begins to flag, lets that roll around in his mouth. 

It’s not about him. 

Chan won’t be back for another three hours at most. This gives Wonwoo time to return his soul to its vessel, to let the tremors work their way out. Then he moves in a daze, cleaning up the package material, carefully setting the collar down on the nightstand in his own room, warming up a late dinner in the kitchen. 

He’s not tasting the food as he stuffs it into his mouth. It’s robotic, his chewing. Solving a primitive need and not much else. When he’s done, he washes his bowl and chopsticks. And then he showers in scalding hot water. Can’t help but jerk off again, this time remembering the morning they shared yesterday, Chan humping him to his own climax. He hallucinates the brown leather around his neck. _Thank you, thank you, thank you’_ s as gold mushroom rivets catch daylight. 

Then he’s dressed in a fresh pair of black sweats, a sleep shirt that’s tight around his biceps, and sitting on the edge of his bed with his phone. The first three times he reads Minjun’s latest message he doesn’t understand a word of it. The fourth try takes all of his willpower to pay attention to anything else other than the prospect of Chan coming home in the next ten minutes. 

_Lots of administrative work. I’m behind the scenes. Kinda. I have to worry about budgeting and what equipment each department needs. Also gotta handle the egos of hotshot doctors during M &M conferences kkk. It’s a lot but I like it. Yeoreum works in the trauma bay_. 

Wonwoo has no idea what a M&M conference is and why doctors would need babysitting at one, but Wonwoo also has no brain power to neither ask nor do a quick google search. He’s not even sure he can speak or read Korean anymore, outside of _Lee Chan_ and _Mine_. He’s... He doesn’t know what he is. 

Well—he knows he’s a pervert. And that Chan, bless his heart, doesn’t recognize that yet. Or maybe he does, and he doesn’t care. Maybe he likes that Wonwoo can’t control himself, that being called seonsaengnim lights him up like nothing else. 

Wonwoo types without putting any conscious thought into it. _Sounds super stressful, but rewarding. I’m very happy you get to do something you like. You met Yeoreum there?_

It’s a strange passing of time. Like the space between one big event and another, where nothing happens except the quiet thrum of anticipation. Wonwoo doesn’t move from that spot, carrying on a conversation with Minjun as if this is just another, mundane day of hundreds. He met Yeoreum in graduate school. She’s a physician that works in trauma and emergency medicine. Their daughter wasn’t planned, since Yeoreum was still in school and Minjun was, too, but she was a blessing in disguise nonetheless. 

Being a father is weird. Minjun never expected to have a child, let alone a wife. He’s confused that the course of his life ended up this way. This feels like somebody else’s dream he’s living. She doesn’t like that he reads erotic books, but that was their compromise; he cannot watch porn anymore. Her parents are overbearing and stresses them out. They trigger his anxiety. How is Wonwoo and his panic attacks? Is he going to therapy? 

_No time for therapy. My anxiety is a lot better than it has been. I’m continuing my breathing exercises. I don’t have time to watch as much porn, and I can’t risk having books in my room since Chan is here. He’s an adult now, but I just don’t think it’s a good idea. Your wife sounds amazing and it must’ve been tough to be pregnant while in school. What do her parents sa—_

Wonwoo doesn’t notice that two hours have passed until the front door’s lock pad beeps and then beeps again, relocking. His joints stiffen, thumbs frozen where they hover over the keyboard. 

Everything leaks back into him at once, and while the weight of the collar faded, he can feel it sitting in his palms again, sees it on his nightstand even if he isn’t looking. He’s staring at his open door. 

Chan usually takes his time winding down. He’s meticulous in his rituals, and Wonwoo has long since grown to understand and tolerate that. Tonight, it feels hours long. His ears strain to hear tiny little noises of movement, Chan navigating across their living space. Things clambering, the soft thuds of bare feet, a door creaking open. It clicks closed. 

Wonwoo lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

Chan’s been filming and dancing for hours. He’s going to be sweaty. He probably wants to shower. Relax, Wonwoo; you can wait twenty minutes longer, if that. 

Shit. Wonwoo feels like a teenager again, his cock twitching in interest even after coming twice in the past afternoon alone. He’s not quite at half-mast yet, but that doesn’t erase the fact that he’s turned on. Again. (Has he ever _not_ been turned on since he opened that damned package?) 

His phone buzzes. It jerks him to attention; he looks down at the screen. 

**Park Minjun**

What do her parents say? [10:24 p.m.] 

Right. Wonwoo sent the message without finishing his question; the door beep made his finger twitch and stab the _send_ button. What was he going to ask again? Her parents… Wonwoo glances at the last message Minjun sent. Oh—yeah. Her parents are overbearing. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Sorry. Sent that prematurely.

What do her parents say that’s overbearing? I’m sorry they make you anxious. Were they bad over Chuseok? [10:40 p.m.]

The conversation distracts him for a little bit longer ( _They act like they know Yeona better than her parents. Other than that, no other disputes kk_.), delving into the back-and-forth between Minjun’s and Yeoreum’s parents and how it’s sometimes a disaster, sometimes very pleasant. Wonwoo is mid-message, telling Minjun his older brother sent him a pathetic _Happy Chuseok!_ in place of their parents, when a door clicks open down the hall. Chan. 

Wonwoo promptly stops tapping. He watches the blue cursor blink until it blurs, until he can hear the padding of bare feet approaching the door. 

The footsteps stop. Then, he looks up. 

Chan is at the door jamb, loose black tee hanging from his frame, sleep shorts unveiling the thick muscle of his thighs as it tapers to his knees, then widens back out to equally thick calves. With the light on both out in the hall and inside of Wonwoo’s room, he can see the damp sheen to Chan’s hair, the impassive look on his face. 

“Chan,” Wonwoo breathes out. His lungs sputter pathetically beneath his ribcage. 

“I want,” Chan starts, pauses to swallow. His eyes flicker between Wonwoo’s gaze and the collar on his nightstand, “I want you to put it on. Me.” 

Wonwoo decided that ten minutes into opening the box, but hearing Chan’s voice, Chan’s casual lilt, say it aloud carries the shock with it. Shock, arousal, heat, arousal, _arousal_. “Chan.” 

Chan takes a step into the room. “You said you’ll have me, right?” 

“When did you buy this?” Wonwoo blurts. 

A second of hesitation. Chan’s lips are parted. “Yesterday,” he says. 

Wonwoo nods, carding shaky fingers through his fringe. Cut short, it flops above his eyebrows. “Oh.” They weren’t together for most of the day, so it makes sense that he had no idea. He imagines Chan sitting in the company van—Sungmin prattling off rules as they drive to his next schedule—scrolling through websites for the nicest-looking collar. 

So that Wonwoo can put it on him. He wants Wonwoo to put it on him. 

Chan has somehow taken several more steps while thoughts rattle around in Wonwoo’s skull like pinballs. He’s one, good stride away from being within arm’s length. Wonwoo glances up. 

“You’ll do it? Do you _want_ to?” 

“Yes.” Wonwoo forgets his phone in his sheets, face down, and slowly gets to his feet. Now, Chan looks up and Wonwoo looks down. “Of—of course. Yes. But. Chan, we need to, like. Talk about this.” 

Chan lifts an eyebrow. “I thought we did. This morning and last night.” 

“No, like,” Wonwoo wrings his hands together to busy them, obliterating the postural tremors, “About what you want. How it… our limits. Almost like the green, yellow, red thing, but. But, for. Sex.” 

He isn’t given a response—not a verbal one, anyway—so he pushes on. This is what he should’ve done the night he watched Chan touch himself. Idiot, idiot, horny Jeon Wonwoo. 

“What do you want from this?” Wonwoo asks. “Things you want to do during, um. Sex.” 

“Can we do this after you collar me?” 

Holy fucking shit. Wonwoo can feel his knees do a dangerous buckle. But, “No,” he says, “We shouldn’t discuss this during a scene. As in… before we do anything. I need to know what’s ok—” 

“Want you to use me,” Chan says, “Roughly.” 

Wonwoo’s mouth is slack. He’s stopped wringing his hands. 

“Hit—hit me. Like, spanking. Slap me wherever. Just,” Chan looks as if he’s getting frustrated, gaze wandering in thought, brows furrowed, “Take control, hyung.” 

He can’t let that get to his head. Not right now. Not when he’s trying to be responsible. No. “Choking? Like. Breathplay.” 

Chan nods. 

“Words.” 

“Yes.” 

“Bondage?” 

“Yes.” 

Wonwoo tries to swallow, but his throat is dry and contracts painfully. Ease down. He has to be the one in control here, and it’s not a good precedent if he’s losing rational thought over discussing limits. 

“What,” he croaks, “about spitting.” 

“In my face?” 

Jesus. “Yes. And mouth.” 

He chances a look. Chan doesn’t seem disgusted or confused. In fact, his eyes are dark, gaze heavy, like he can see right into Wonwoo’s brain, flipping through every depraved porno he’s seen. Then, tone somehow still steady, more in control than Wonwoo sounds (and is), says, “Anywhere you want. Just—be mean.” 

Somewhere inside Wonwoo’s subconscious, cords unplug. Or replugging. Wonwoo isn’t sure; regardless, his vision dips in and out, a dunk into water, before Chan comes back into sight. Still staring at him. Brave and willing and _his_ . Wonwoo is being allowed to do this. Chan _wants_ Wonwoo to do this. 

“Color?” 

Chan doesn’t miss a beat. “Green. Very green.” 

Okay. “Okay,” Wonwoo’s breath quivers. He sucks in a gulp of air, releases it slowly through his nose, and then— 

And then he’s taking the collar off the nightstand. The leather is thick and expensive in his hand, 100 grams weighing ten kilos. He turns back to Chan, who hasn’t moved and stares resolutely. 

Wonwoo clears his throat and swallows. “Take off your shirt and get on your knees.” 

Chan doesn’t hesitate. He’s shirtless and kneeling within seconds, blinking up at him. So pretty. His smooth, hairless skin with that post-shower glow, his rosy brown nipples, the lean muscle tensing in his abdomen and in his arms. All Wonwoo’s. 

“Hands behind your back and give me your neck.” 

Again, Chan responds in an instant. Wrists crossed where his back dimples, Chan exposes the long, supple line of his throat. Wonwoo already feels drunk off of power, cock swelling in his sweats. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Put the collar on me,” Chan sounds breathless. His eyes flutter closed, then he opens them again and focuses on Wonwoo’s dark gaze. “Wanna be yours.” 

“Beg.” Wonwoo resists palming himself with his free hand by bunching it up in the material at his thigh. 

Chan lets out a tiny whine, lashes fluttering some more. “Please. Please, seonsaengnim, plea—”

Wonwoo crouches in front of him, pulling the strap loose from its frame. Chan tries to tip his chin down to watch, but Wonwoo says, “Gimmie my throat Channie,” and Chan whimpers, doing as he’s told. 

The energy shifts once Wonwoo gets it around his neck. He’s careful, fingers quivering a little as to not jerk Chan’s head around or hurt him. The deep, glossy brown looks so pretty against Chan’s skin, and the gold embellishments compliment his own color scheme. A great choice. A symbol of possession that Chan got to control. Wonwoo pulls the strap through its frame, tugging until the leather lies flush to Chan’s skin. He tests the tightness by slipping two fingers underneath. 

Perfect. Once the prong is through its corresponding hole, Wonwoo lets go to admire his handiwork. Chan doesn’t change positions even as Wonwoo finishes. “Good boy,” Wonwoo mumbles, distracted. 

His. 

The air thickens with their combined arousal, atmosphere protruding into foreign ground. Foreign, but not unusual. It’s a little frightening still, having this gift and being able to decide where the night goes. And there are many, many things Wonwoo wants to do with Chan; they crawl up from the basement he shut them into, tapping his shoulder to fool him into looking. 

But—Wonwoo’s eyes scrape over Chan’s body. Firm, compact, hair a darker brown with residual water. The strands drip onto his shoulders. Rivulets create paths along his Adam's apple, into the well of his clavicles—If he’s allowed to do what he wants, Wonwoo wants him. Every single centimeter of him on display, to explore with his eyes, fingers, mouth. Tongue. 

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” Wonwoo surprises himself with how steady the demand is relayed, “and wait for me in my bathroom.” 

Chan finally tips his head down. The collar shifts, D-ring catching the overhead lamp. If Wonwoo was half-mast before, he’s fully hard now. “Yessir,” Chan whispers. 

Wonwoo pushes back up onto his feet and watches as Chan fumbles with his shorts, shoving them down over his thighs and off. As soon as that’s finished, he stands up from where he was kneeled and kicks off his little, black briefs. His own cock is hard, too, hanging heavy between his legs. 

Chan gives Wonwoo a final glance before he pads across the bedroom and into the bathroom, door left ajar. 

The light turns on. Alright. 

Wonwoo retrieves his personal bottle of lube from his nightstand. He never thought he’d be using it on somebody else, but here he is. This isn’t a reality he ever thought he’d see beyond dreams. 

When he pushes the bathroom door open and slips inside, he finds Chan standing in front of the wall-length mirror, fingering the collar, fingertips running over and around the rivets. Wonwoo pauses to stare, momentarily enthralled, before Chan finds him in their reflections. Then he closes the door with his heel and says, “I told you to put your hands behind your back.” 

Chan’s chest shudders on his exhale. There’s a glimpse of attitude in his smirk, but he fights it off and does as he’s told. “You want me on my knees, too? Ssaem?” 

Wonwoo is going to have to correct that behavior. Soon. 

He puts the lube on the counter and moves to stand behind Chan. They can still make eye contact in the mirror, Wonwoo’s head towering over Chan’s. “No,” he says, “stay like this. I want you to watch yourself. Don’t look away.” 

Chan obeys, but he asks, “And if I disobey?” anyway. 

Wonwoo holds Chan by both of his shoulders and curls his fingers around the joint. “Then,” he trails off to think, “I’ll spank you. On your thighs and ass.” 

“Doesn't sound like a punishment.” 

“It will be when you have to dance the next day.” 

Chan’s responding silence is his acquiescence. 

Wonwoo doesn’t watch his own hands. He watches his reflection’s hands, Chan’s body. His cute cock, thicker than it is long, tipping closer to his stomach than his thighs. His hairless groin, the taper of his waist, his heavy-lidded eyes. “Pretty,” Wonwoo mumbles. He runs his palms down Chan’s biceps, curves them over his elbows, then slides over to hold his waist. Chan’s inhale does a tiny hitch. “Pretty boy.” 

Chan licks his lips, lids falling until he remembers not to look away and widens his eyes again. 

“Can’t believe this is mine,” Wonwoo digs his fingers into Chan’s waist with one hand, the other smoothing out over his belly, dipping low towards his pelvis. Muscle jumps beneath his touch; Chan curves his back a little deeper. “Channie.” 

He leans over to plant a kiss on Chan’s left shoulder. And then another. And then he trails slow, soft kisses towards the junction of his neck. He leaves a heavier one there, just below the collar, laving his tongue across his skin. Chan sighs, head tipping ever so slightly to make room for Wonwoo’s. He wishes he could leave a bruise there, watch red bloom where he’s been claimed. Sucks. 

Wonwoo plants a light kiss right on the collar, then skips up to mouth at Chan’s jaw, tasting the salt and lavender body wash. Chan’s breaths are getting heavier, his gaze going hazy. “Hyung,” he whimpers. Wonwoo gently shushes him, curls the hand that was on his belly up under his jaw. 

C’mere,” Wonwoo whispers back, and turns Chan’s head to the side so he can claim that mouth next, steal the whimper as his own. Chan huffs out through his nose, a surprised noise, before melting into the kiss, letting Wonwoo lick past the seam of his lips. Wonwoo does that for a while, lapping at Chan’s tongue, digging his fingers into Chan’s face with a thumb under one ear, remaining fingers under the other. 

Chan follows his lead, now more confident than the first time they did this. He sighs, moans, shivers as Wonwoo roams his other palm over his abdomen, up to tease a nipple with his index finger. Chan’s kissing goes sloppy as he chases that touch, curving farther out; Wonwoo gives it a tiny pinch, and Chan yelps into his mouth. Still, he keeps his wrists crossed where he was told to hold them. 

Then Wonwoo nips at his bottom lip at the same time he reaches out to grab Chan’s dick at the base, giving it an experimental squeeze. A low, long groan pours out of Chan’s throat, and his body jumps. Wonwoo lets him break the kiss to gasp and squirm for a few seconds, and then drags him back in with the grip on his jaw. “Hyu—ng, _hy’ng_.” 

“Shh,” Wonwoo shoves his tongue into Chan’s slack mouth, gives his cock a few, dry tugs. Chan’s body jerks like it did before, and he melts, whining softly. “Gorgeous,” Wonwoo keeps their lips together to mumble, “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?” 

“Hyu—” 

“I’m hyung?” He tightens his grip on Chan’s cock, right under the flared crown, and Chan’s hips jump. “What am I, Chan?” 

Chan’s lashes flutter. His cheeks are already starting to pinken up in the heat, the arousal. “Ssaem,” he sighs. He’s rewarded with a twist at his cockhead, Wonwoo’s palm running over his leaking slit. His moan is high and airy. 

“That’s right,” Wonwoo says, pecks Chan’s lips. He takes a side-glance at their reflections to watch himself jerk Chan off in very slow, careful strokes. Watches Chan’s forearms tense, his pelvis rock gently into Wonwoo’s fist. “You thank people when they do something nice for you. What do you say?” 

Chan’s eyes close. 

“Nu-uh, open. Look at yourself and tell me.” 

It’s not obeyed right away, but Chan does pry his eyes open after a few seconds, when Wonwoo’s hand slows. He finds Wonwoo’s stare in their reflections first, then drags his own over to himself. “Thuh-thank you.” 

“Thank you?” He thumbs at his slit, pressing down as precome beads out around the pad. A whimper is trapped in Chan’s throat. 

“Ssaem,” Chan tries, “Th’nk you, ssaem.” His words are beginning to slur, coming out like it’s taking him a concentrated amount of effort. Wonwoo watches Chan’s expression go lax, blissed-out, eyes hazing over. Shit, he already looks like he’s receding. 

“Don’t forget your manners,” Wonwoo mutters. He allows Chan a few more strokes as he mouths at the side of his face, leaving sloppy kisses up to his ear. When he rolls his earlobe between his teeth, soothing it with some tongue, Chan’s head bobs backwards, breaths now coming in slow, drawn-out pants. “But, you won’t. Because you’re a good boy, right?” 

Chan’s tongue pokes out to wet his lips. Then, “Yes.” 

Wonwoo lets go of Chan’s cock, watches another bead of precome glisten at the slit. “ _Yes_?” he warns. 

“Sorry,” Chan slurs, “‘M a good boy.” 

Fuck. Wonwoo loses track again, watches Chan in a stupor of lust and awe. He’s slipped away so quickly, malleable under Wonwoo’s touch. His skin, paler from meticulous plights to avoid any sunlight, shimmers with sweat, lotion. And everytime he breathes out, his abs carve out, then disappear. Wonwoo lets go of Chan’s jaw to press his heel down onto his own, hard cock, desperate for relief. 

Calm. Calm down. He was doing so well, maintaining an air of dominance. 

“You are,” Wonwoo’s voice shakes, “so good. Stay just like that.” He reaches out and picks the lube off the counter. Chan tries to watch, but Wonwoo gives his cheek a few warning pats with the back of his hand. “Eyes on yourself.” Chan’s throat vibrates in complaint, even as he does as he’s told. 

Wonwoo flicks open the cap of the lube with his thumbnail and squeezes some of the viscous liquid onto his index and middle finger. He steps back a little to get a good view of Chan’s back, his spine jutting out of his skin, where his hands are clamped together above his ass. Wonwoo can’t help it; he gives one cheek a little slap with his soiled hand—not using the fingers with lubricant coated on—and watches as it ripples, fat and muscle. 

Chan expels a rush of air. Then, soft and confused, “Th-thought I was good?”

“You are,” Wonwoo mutters. He does one more slap, just for posterity. Fuck. His dick throbs painfully in his sweats. “Not a punishment.” 

A distracted hum. Chan is leaving him; he needs to keep him attached to reality. 

“G’nna finger you,” he says, spreading Chan apart with one hand as he rubs the lube around his rim, “Have you been fingered before?” Chan doesn’t respond right away, and Wonwoo glances up at their reflections to find Chan obeying, eyes on his own face, but lost. Glazed over. His hair darker with shower water and sweat, the high point of his cheekbones tinged pink. There’s a hint of tongue between his wet, parted lips. 

Wonwoo squeezes another glob of lube directly onto Chan’s rim, and this gets him to buck forward, running from the cold before Wonwoo tugs him back into place. “Channie. Has anyone fingered you before?” 

“Yes, y-eah,” Chan breathes, “fingered myself. ‘Nd—others, too.” 

“Others.” 

“Seungkwan hyung. Seokmin hyu— _ah_ ,” Chan’s voice melts into a gargle when Wonwoo sinks his index finger in to the first knuckle, fighting past the resistance. His rosy-brown hole opens up for him, clamping down around the intrusion as Chan tenses. “Ah— _nn_ , ssae—” 

Wonwoo remembers having the displeasure of catching Chan and Seungkwan making out once. Or twice. Still, the admission of being involved with Seokmin—someone Wonwoo never considered to be into men—injects a terrible, acidic rush into his veins. It’s irrational, and it’s inconsequential, and yet Wonwoo wants to rewrite those memories, replace it with this one: Chan, leather collar flush to his neck, giving Wonwoo his body and soul. “Yeah?” He presses his mouth to Chan’s ear, watching them in the mirror. “You let them touch you like this?” 

Chan’s mouth falls open to respond, but a whine tumbles out instead, once Wonwoo decides he’s grown accustomed to his finger and sinks it down to the second knuckle. A curl, twisting it forward and down, and Chan trembles, whines again. “Gonna—can’t stand—” 

“Stay up for me,” Wonwoo whispers, hot breath ghosting over the shell of Chan’s ear. “Be good. Thought you wanted to take whatever I gave you?” 

“I,” Chan starts, then stops. Wonwoo fucks into him, shallow but firm, and a harsher tremble wracks over Chan. He doesn’t try to speak anymore. 

This time, he doesn’t try to make him. He twists the finger out to the tip, pressing in his middle finger on the next thrust, listening to Chan’s staccato breaths, feeling him fight to stay still, remain upright, muscles coiling tight. That’s how he works Chan loose—scissoring in, pressing relentlessly at that spot that makes the precome dribble out from Chan’s cock. By the time he has three fingers fucking Chan in quick, steady strokes, Chan is a panting mess, and an off-white string of precome hangs from his slit. It hurts like fuck, Wonwoo’s erection, but he wants to savor this moment. He wants Chan to succumb to his pleasure, forget anything that exists outside of this bathroom. 

It’s not about him. 

But, “Wanna fuck you,” Wonwoo groans, lips still pressed to Chan’s ear. “You want that? To be bent over this counter and fucked?”

Chan outright moans now—not just a hash breath, but a pretty, unabashed _moan_ , the loudest he’s been since they began the scene. A _tsk_ gets him to open his eyes as quickly as he’d closed them. “Please,” he says, “please fuck me, please.” 

Wonwoo flicks his wrist faster, twists his three fingers and scissors them out. “Have you begged them to fuck you? Seungkwan or Seokmin ever bend you over?” 

“No,” Chan stutters out, head tipping, “No, they ‘nt, didn’t, no one—” 

He slows his thrusts, gaze heavy on Chan. “No one what? Fucked you?” 

The answer is obvious before Chan can even force a response. It unravels what’s been built, freezing Wonwoo to the spot. Unmoving. Because—shit— _what_? No one? Not a single person has had their cock inside of him? He knows Chan has had sex plenty of times before (there were some mornings he had to help cover bruises before they drove to his makeup artist, Wonwoo tutting at Chan to be more careful), but. But, Wonwoo’s always just assumed he’d both fucked and _been_ fucked. How—why—? 

“Just could,” Chan slurs, as if reading Wonwoo’s mind; although it’s probably obvious what he’s thinking by the slack-jawed expression he’s wearing, “could never. Got as far as fingering, ‘nd. Blowjobs. Handjobs.” 

Wonwoo still doesn’t move. New dilemma: should he be doing this? Have Chan’s first time be in a scene where he’s wearing a fucking _collar_ and calling Wonwoo seonsaengnim? This can’t be. This shouldn’t be. Or, maybe Wonwoo’s weighing firsts way heavier than Chan is; he’s allowed him this. Which calls to question whether it’s the right thing to do even if Chan wants it. Will he want it in five years? Ten? How would Chan feel about Wonwoo and what they’ve done when he’s thir— 

“I want you to,” Chan insists. He’s returning, piecemeal, from the fog, illusion fading. “Please. I want you to fuck me, hyung. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to.” 

Wonwoo slowly pulls his fingers out; Chan’s brows furrow. “I just do—” 

“Do you want to? Is it—it a turn-off?” Even as Chan tries to hide it beneath his confident bravado, Wonwoo catches it easily—the insecurity breaking through. Fear that he’s being rejected. 

He isn’t. Wonwoo would never reject him. Wonwoo’s wanted—he wants this. It almost scares him how much he wants this. Chan has never been fucked before, and he’s standing here, eyes on Wonwoo, _begging_ him to do it. The flare of possession he felt when Chan told him he’d been fingered by his label mates before melts away, and Wonwoo starts anew: he gets to have his first. No one else can say they’ve done this to Chan before. 

Wonwoo will forever be solidified in Chan’s memory as the man to take his virginity. (He’s not a virgin, though, so it doesn’t even make sense—but in Wonwoo’s lust-ridden, perverted, _perverted_ mind, that doesn’t count. It doesn’t.) 

“No,” Wonwoo says, when he realizes he hasn’t answered for six or seven dangerous seconds. The slump to Chan’s shoulders lift. “I do. I want to.” So bad. So, so badly. 

Then?” 

“Are you sure?” Wonwoo asks, “That this is what you want? Like this?” He doesn’t need to gesture at Chan, completely naked and collared juxtaposed against a fully-clothed, very hard Wonwoo; the meaning is obvious enough. 

Chan doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. I want it to be you. I’ve always,” he eyes shift across the bathroom, wide in thought, before he finds Wonwoo’s weary gaze, “It should be you.” 

_It should be you_. Lee Chan is going to be the absolute death of him. 

“Hands on the sink.” 

There’s a millisecond pause before Chan unclamps his hands at the small of his back and stretches out his arms. Then he curls his fingers over the ledge and returns to watching himself, waiting. 

Wonwoo sucks in a few, shaky breaths, fear and arousal a horrible mix that sends his guts lurching in several directions. If there exists a hell, he may be toeing the line to eternal damnation. Chan is a grown man—his own, autonomous agent—but Wonwoo, even as he tugs his sweats down to ( _finally_ ) free his hard, aching cock, has to wonder if that’s just an excuse he’s giving himself to follow through with this. 

His gaze settles on the swell of Chan’s ass, on display for his use. It’s difficult to believe that this is a bad idea when Chan is so willing, so pliant, so _gorgeous_ with that leather strapped to his neck and tense muscles along his shoulders, spine. Wonwoo should shut the fuck up and take what’s his. 

Wonwoo shuts the fuck up and squirts another, generous heap of lube onto the palm of his hand, rubs it between his fingers, then slicks his cock. The relief of getting to touch his dick shocks a sigh out of him, his eyes fluttering. Once satisfied, he steps up closer to Chan’s back, still giving his length lazy tugs. “Are you sure?” he asks, because maybe he should. 

“Ssaem,” Chan whines. They find each other in the mirror. “Fuck me. Teach me how to take your cock.” 

That. Zips straight up his spine, tingling at something primitive in the base of his skull. The current is powerful enough to momentarily blind him, stars swimming in his vision. “Chan, fuck, you—” Shouldn’t say that if you want me to stay sane. 

But, Chan doesn’t seem to want him to cling to reality. Chan tugs his kiss-swollen bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it, then lets go to breathe, “Show me. Please.” 

Wonwoo feels the mask slip back on, his soul tucked away to make room in his chest. “Alright, okay, fuck,” he spreads Chan open with his clean hand, reintroducing Chan’s lubed, rosy brown hole, and does a few more breathing exercises before he angles his hips closer, swollen cockhead pressing at his rim. Chan tenses in anticipation, making the fit next to impossible. 

“Relax,” Wonwoo soothes. He presses his palm between the dimples in Chan’s back, urging him to bend over further, until he’s almost parallel with the floor, arms stretched out to hold the ledge. “Breathe, Channie. Need you to keep breathing for me, okay?” 

Chan nods, then remembers he needs to use words. “Okay,” he sighs, “Okay.” He does as he’s instructed, chest rising and falling steadily. 

There’s still no way he’s loose and relaxed enough for Wonwoo to fit. Even with Chan’s best attempts, he’s going to need a distraction. Wonwoo curls an arm around his middle, getting a grip on Chan’s neglected cock with the hand that’s dirty with lube. Chan jolts into the touch, arch curving deeper. “Hy—ssaem,” he whimpers. 

“Keep breathing for me,” Wonwoo mutters. He tugs at Chan’s cock, slicking it for an easier slide. He lets Chan get lost in his pleasure, then, giving up his plight to maintain at least one clean hand, uses his other to guide his dick into Chan’s hole. It’s a tight fit, of course, but now it’s _possible_ ; Chan groans from where his head is ducked, and Wonwoo can feel him fighting to not clamp up. He keeps stroking Chan’s length, cooing soft words of encouragement. 

Tight. Very, very tight, and unbearably hot. It’s a wet heat—combined with the memory that this is Chan’s first time taking someone’s dick—that has Wonwoo’s knees wobbling. Too tight. “Shit,” Wonwoo grits out. To Chan’s chagrin, he stops touching him to grab the lube, squeezing more of it down his crack and seeping into where his cockhead fits. “Keep breathing. Tell me if it hurts too much and I’ll stop, okay? Okay?” 

Chan nods jerkily, then gasps, “Yeah, yeah, just—go.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t scold him when he takes over Wonwoo’s job to tug at his cock, a semi-decent distraction as Wonwoo continues to ease his way into Chan’s heat. At one point he hisses, shooting that hand back to push at Wonwoo’s pelvis, and Wonwoo stops immediately. He rubs soothing paths up and down Chan’s sides, leaving streaks of lube but not really caring. Chan’s comfort is his priority, always. 

Chan returns to tugging lazily at his flagging dick. “Okay, go,” he gasps. 

Wonwoo’s halfway in, using every semblance of self-restraint to not thrust the rest of the way, when Chan taps him to stop again. “How does it feel?” Wonwoo tries. Goddamn _tight_. It’s as if Chan’s body is trying to swallow him whole, in opposition to Chan’s weak shove. 

“Full,” Chan huffs, “A little—painful. You’re huge.” 

He’s not sure if he should say sorry for having a big dick. He hopes the way he strokes his sides sends the message. 

The bathroom is quiet save for their off-beat panting. Wonwoo reaches out to knead his knuckles between Chan’s shoulder blades, working his way down until he’s rubbing at his hip again. Chan trembles, goes still, then says, “How much left?” 

Wonwoo glances down at where he’s splitting Chan open. Vulgar and arousing. “Half.” 

“Finish. Go.” Chan returns to jerking off. “Please.” 

“Chan,” there’s caution in his tone, “I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t overexert yourself. It’ll be difficult to dance tomorrow if you’re in pa—” 

“Not much dancing left,” Chan says. “Mostly just stupid vlog content.” 

That’s. Not convincing. “You have to walk. This could be a mist—” 

“I’m _fine_. Please go. Fuck me, seonsaengnim, please. Wanna learn how to tuh- _ah_ - _k_ -fuck,” he breaks off into a groan, rumbling in his chest, as Wonwoo holds him tight with both hands on his hips and eases in. Chan tightens up, almost too tight to continue, and Wonwoo force-fucks him open with harder thrusts; his pelvis meets Chan’s asscheeks, and both men groan in tandem. 

Wonwoo’s going to drown in this wet heat, the way Chan clings to him. He hasn’t even started yet and he’s going delirious, vision blurring. “Wow,” he sighs, “tight little virgin ass.” It’s not meant to slip out—the words he’s kept locked in its cage, saved only for those nights he fantasizes—but it’s gone, and there’s no retracting. 

Chan whimpers, trembling. “Hyung.” 

He’ll let the hyung go. Besides, he likes it, the breathy _hyung._ All demure, albeit the way he’s taking Wonwoo’s cock is anything but. 

Wonwoo doesn’t want to hold it in anymore. Chan is well aware that he isn’t as wholesome as his demeanor assumes. This is who he is—rocking into Chan’s hole, commanding, “Both hands on the sink,” now that he’s in and Chan doesn't need that distraction. 

Chan shakily puts his hand where it belongs. 

“Head up,” Wonwoo says, “show me your face. Look at yourself.” 

“Hyung.” 

“You watch yourself all the time,” he strokes over the jut of his hip bone with the backs of his fingers, “This isn’t any different. Look at yourself getting fucked for the first time.” 

Chan, hesitant, lifts his head and meets his own, teary gaze. Gorgeous, Wonwoo thinks, the pink flush that’s traveled to his ears, the sheen above his lip, on his T-zone. His hair, wild and thick, framing his strong jaw like a halo of chestnut brown. Then—most importantly—that fucking collar on his otherwise naked body. And Wonwoo is still dressed, sweats only down far enough to free his dick and balls. 

Surreal. Demeaning. 

“Good boy. Don’t look away. Watch.” 

“Yessir.” 

Wonwoo does an experimental thrust, using a fraction of his length, and Chan’s hands scramble for purchase. His mouth rounds out into a silent _oh_. 

“Remember your manners,” Wonwoo mutters. He continues to fuck him with that litte bit, rocking along. “You begged for this, so what do we say?” 

“Thank you,” Chan says. Wonwoo gives him an extra fraction, and he makes a sound close to a sob. “Thank you, th’nk you, thank y’—” 

That’s how Wonwoo works, giving more and more as Chan whines, slurs out _thank you_ ’s, fighting to stay in position with his head up, looking at his own expressions of pleasure. Wonwoo grits his teeth, remaining patient, easing, _easing_. 

“There y’go,” Wonwoo says, “taking your first cock so well. Being good for me.” Now fucking Chan with half of his length, he starts tugging Chan back onto his cock as he pivots forward, the rougher impact sending little waves over Chan’s ass. Mesmerized, Wonwoo speeds up gradually, watching each swell jiggle every time their skin meets. “Can’t believe no one fucked you,” he breathes. 

Chan’s eyes are losing focus, jaw slack. “Wuh-waited,” he mumbles, “wanted—you, _nn_ -hyung.” 

Shit. Wonwoo’s hips stutter, mistakenly rutting harder than he intended. Chan’s back arches, a cry ripping out from his throat. He shouldn’t ask, it won’t do any good, but Wonwoo’s feeling light headed from how aroused he is, his filter disintegrating in real time. “You waited for me? Wanted me t’to be your first?” 

“Was a stupid dream,” Chan’s voice is airy, “Never thought yo-you’d want me that way, but—still waited.” 

Another plug is pulled, and Wonwoo’s head swims. He’s going to come embarrassingly fast if he harps on that too long. “Shit,” he whimpers, curling forward over Chan’s back. “You’re gonna kill me.” 

Chan laughs, breathless. “Fuck me before you die.” 

Wonwoo fucks him. He gives him his entire girth now, opening that space up for him, creating a path no one else has been before. And Chan takes it, jerking into every stroke, writhing and gasping. He changes his angle, forcing Chan to arch his lean, dancer’s body so he can fuck in towards his front; a high, loud moan is punched out of Chan, and his cock jerks, precome a string from his cockhead down to the floor. 

He keeps his thrusts angled that way, assaulting Chan’s prostate. “Hyung,” he cries, “hy’ng, yeah, _there_ ,” his head dips forward as he takes it, takes what Wonwoo offers—hard, quick thrusts, pulling out until his crown catches on Chan’s stretched rim, and then thrusting back in. 

The heat is crawling up Wonwoo’s spine. Hot-white, like dry ice pressed to his skin. A little more mean, a little more bold, Wonwoo hisses, “Didn’t tell you to put your head down, _up_ ,” and he snatches Chan by the back of the collar, forcing him to lift up or choke with a harsh tug. Chan makes a gurgling noise that lights Wonwoo’s flame into a wildfire. “Stay. Tell me how it feels, c’mon.” 

Chan’s mouth hangs open, expression distant. “Stretching,” he tries, “stretching me wide, oh, _oh_ , please, right there, don’t sto-op.” 

“‘M not taking orders,” Wonwoo says, but obeys anyway, relentlessly fucking against Chan’s prostate, chasing his own orgasm. Which—he’s been turned on for awhile, teetering close just on the idea of Chan submitting for him, that it’s no surprise. But, he wants Chan to come before him, wants Chan to come on Wonwoo’s cock—his first cock. And, fuck, if he’s tight now, Chan trembling through his climax will consume Wonwoo, drag him in to never return. 

“What do we say?” 

“Thank you,” Chan gasps. “Thank you.” 

Wonwoo tugs Chan back onto every thrust. “If you wanna come, y’have to ask. Ask for permi—” 

“Please,” Chan says to his own reflection. A tear that’s been teetering at his inner lid breaks free, following the curve of his cheekbone. “Please let me come, ssaem, wanna come.” 

“Yeah? Your first cock good?” 

“Th’best,” he babbles. 

Wonwoo gives a cheek a slap, groans as he watches it jiggle. “F’course it’s the best. Your only.” 

“Hyung,” he whines. 

Finally, Wonwoo has mercy; he reaches around Chan and fists his neglected dick, the remnants of lube and Chan’s precome as his slip. Chan’s moans are turning desperate, shaky with every breath, his body bucking up into Wonwoo’s fist, then back to where Wonwoo’s nudging _right there_ with his cockhead on every stroke. 

“Come for me, Channie,” Wonwoo groans. He’s blinded with stars, Chan’s desperate noises, the squelch of lube, the slap of skin overwhelming his senses. There’s Chan, only Chan, and when Chan comes, muscle spasming around Wonwoo’s cock, Wonwoo moans and comes, too. Spills into Chan as Chan spills over his fingers, onto the floor. 

He milks every drop from Wonwoo, until Chan’s wobbly on his knees and Wonwoo’s completely draped over him, forehead on the back of his collar. Both gasping, shivering. 

When it’s clear Chan won’t last much longer on his feet, Wonwoo eases out of him, then watches his own come follow suit with hazy eyes. He eases Chan onto the ground, away from the mess of come. Chan’s head tips forward, hair flopping into his eyes, chest rising and falling as he pants. 

“Good job,” Wonwoo mumbles, meeting Chan on the floor so he can scoop him into his arms. Chan comes pliantly, knees drawn, leaning onto Wonwoo’s shoulder. Wonwoo rakes his fingers up and down his back, massaging at random knots. “Good job, Channie. Thank you.” 

Chan makes a questioning hum. 

“For trusting me. For—everything.” 

His response is Chan curling impossibly close, nose nuzzled into his shirt. Wonwoo has to wonder who the last person that thanked him is. If Chan was the only person that gave thanks. 

Wonwoo kisses the crown of his head. “Thank you.” 

This time he knows to hold on tighter—murmuring compliments he’s never said aloud but always felt—when Chan shudders, then begins to cry. 

They shower together. Wonwoo takes the collar off after Chan calms down, giving him another thank you as he pecks his lips. He helps Chan wash his hair, clean out the lube and Wonwoo’s come, in comfortable silence. 

There’s no question where Chan sleeps tonight. An unspoken rule not to separate from one another after sex has Wonwoo lending Chan a sleepshirt from his drawer, and they lie in Wonwoo’s bed, tangled in one another. 

“Was it good for you?” Chan asks drowsily. His voice is muffled in Wonwoo’s chest. 

Wonwoo kneads at the nape of his neck, now that he can. “Incredible,” he whispers. “You were incredible.” His fingers are trembling with how much he means that. 

As if that was the only worry preventing Chan from drifting, another minute or two of Wonwoo massaging him lulls him to quiet sleep. 

Surreal. It’s all surreal. 

Wonwoo shifts closer, and his foot bumps his phone. Right. He’d abandoned it on his bed when Chan returned. He slides his phone up within arm’s reach with his legs. Before he reaches over to set it on his nightstand charger, he takes a peek at his notifications. One from Soonyoung, one from Minjun. Both from several hours ago. 

He taps Minjun’s. 

**Park Minjun**

Anyway. Enough about me. 

What have you been up to? [10:43 p.m.] 

  
  



	5. stillness of remembering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beat rattles Wonwoo’s ribs, has his lungs sputter and fight to bring in air. Pinesol hangs heavy around him, enveloping, oppressive. Chan’s back curves in a pretty little half-moon, and suddenly Wonwoo smells and feels none of it. 
> 
> Yeah. He’s in love. 
> 
> He’s known this entire time, so he’s not sure why this comes to him like a puncture wound. Chan said I trust you and Wonwoo thought I love you, too. Chan at twenty, bold and confident, willing to be so vulnerable and give every fucking centimeter of himself to Wonwoo. 
> 
> _If I could give myself to anyone I wanted, I’d give myself to you._
> 
> I love you, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: more virginity kink, consensual slut-shaming, spit kink, talk of con non-con during sex
> 
> Moment of honesty  
> Someones gotta take the lead tonight  
> Who's it gonna be?  
> I'm gonna sit right here  
> And tell you all that comes to me  
> If you have something to say  
> You should say it right now (you ready?)
> 
> — _unthinkable_

Another boundary permanently crossed, the final string of control has been severed. They’re awake an hour before Wonwoo’s five a.m. alarm, three hours after falling asleep, and Wonwoo is feeling overwhelmed because Lee Chan, wearing his sleepshirt, is writhing around, whimpering into Wonwoo’s mouth as they kiss. 

Wonwoo wants to enjoy this first. Have Chan as another man in his bed before graduating to the terms they discussed. Not just because Chan deserves it, but also because Wonwoo’s always wanted this—tending to Chan like a lover. Like they’re two people infatuated with one another, riding the high of their honeymoon phase, and Wonwoo wants nothing other than to claim every centimeter of Chan’s body. Make him feel good, _feel good_ making him feel good. 

He starts with his throat. Instead of a collar there are his lips, mouthing at the supple skin. Chan, still in that blurry space between sleep and arousal, tips his head back onto the pillow and sighs. Pretty and warm, unguarded in his drowsiness. Wonwoo presses a wet kiss just above his clavicle, where the neck of the shirt hangs down, and Chan releases what sounds like the mix between a word and a moan—maybe Wonwoo’s name, maybe nothing at all. Wonwoo’s careful to keep teeth or pressure to a minimum, not wanting to leave a bruise they’ll have to attempt to cover; still, his skin blooms a temporary red before fading back into its natural color. Unmarked, flawless. 

Wonwoo is the only one that can see the phantom hickies, the ghost of a collar around Chan’s neck. The deep haze of trust in four a.m. Chan’s eyes. He feels the vibrations of Chan’s whines as he works his way down until he can’t stretch the collar down anymore, tips back up to mouth at Chan’s slack lips while he slides his hands underneath the tee shirt. A generous expanse of skin is unveiled as he rolls the cotton up to under Chan’s armpits, tucked beneath his chin. 

“Hyung,” Chan mumbles, more breath than voice. Loud in the quiet of his— _their_ —bedroom. It’s dark here and outside, but Wonwoo’s eyes are adjusted to it by now; he appreciates the way Chan’s rosy brown nipples pucker against the draft in the empty space, the way his skin stretches out over his ribs and caves in just above his navel, at the waist. Then, his thighs, thick and splayed out on the mattress, pressed together. He isn’t wearing any briefs, and his half-hard cock slowly fills between his legs. As the foreskin retracts, his dark pink cockhead is unsheathed where it hides. 

Wonwoo cannot believe how lucky he is. He shows his appreciation, fingers trembling in building adrenaline and arousal, as he licks into Chan’s mouth a little while longer, palms roaming over his pecs, following his ribs, settling at his waist, then his hips. He’s so warm from being tucked under the duvet and into Wonwoo’s arms, and he blushes sweetly at the high of his cheekbones, along where Wonwoo presses his fingers into. The dip between each rib, at his pelvis. “Wow,” Wonwoo mumbles into Chan’s flesh, where it’s softer at the center of his tummy. _This is all his_. Wrapped in a pretty little bow just for him to undo and savor. 

They’re not the best people by far, but Wonwoo finds himself whispering his thanks to Chan’s father and mother for giving birth to him. He’ll have to send them a gift—maybe a downy winter coat or some running shoes. Anything that properly shows his appreciation for how tight Chan’s ass feels around his cock. How Chan belongs on his knees, blinking wet eyes up at Wonwoo, a hand or collar around his throat. 

No one else has claimed all of him. Wonwoo refuses to leave any path unexplored. He finds every divot and corner of Chan’s body and drapes it with his own—fingertips over fingertips, over Chan’s knees, calves, inside of his ankles and over the arch of his feet. Chan watches in a sleepy daze, following along while Wonwoo laves over the bones of his feet, his toes, his heel with his tongue. How he spreads Chan’s legs and kneels between them, finally able to suck bruises where no one can find them. Chan sighs and hiccups, lies pliant for Wonwoo to bloom petals of dark red right beneath his groin, in the sensitive skin and muscle. Chan is fully hard and leaking by the time Wonwoo arrives to suck each ballsack into his mouth, to hum and give each languid strokes with tongue. When he swallows down the length of him, Chan’s hips jerk, back curving up off of the mattress, and a high whine escapes him, louder than the previous. 

“Hy—hyung, oh—” 

His skin is feverish and his precome is salty. Wonwoo takes his time at the head of his cock, suckling and dipping into the slit, tasting everything Chan gives him. Wonwoo lets out a pleased hum, and Chan’s thighs quiver where they cage in his head. So much untapped power in the way the muscle tenses and strains, trying hard not to crush Wonwoo between them—not that Wonwoo would mind. 

Wonwoo feels as if he’s returned to his sixteen year-old body. His erection throbs in his sweats, relieved only as he ruts against the bed like a fucking teenager. But Chan is so good—so sexy—so _willing_ to let Wonwoo do as he pleases and just moan softly where he lies. In Wonwoo’s bed, wearing Wonwoo’s clothes. Belonging to Wonwoo. Holy shit. This is real, isn’t it? Not an illusion, not a mirage, but Wonwoo’s actual life. 

Chan comes down his throat with a sound that has Wonwoo shoving his hands down his sweats and fisting his own erection to completion. He leaves the mess where it soaks into his briefs, wipes his hands on his pants. “Taste how good you are,” Wonwoo whispers, gruff from sleep and sucking dick, before crawling back up the bed and shoving his tongue between Chan’s lips. Chan writhes, hands coming up to clutch onto Wonwoo’s shoulders, only for Wonwoo to snatch them off and pin them above his head. His wrists feel as thin as he remembers, back when Chan had turned twenty and ran his hands down his torso. Easy to bruise, to tie together, to slap until they burn if Chan isn’t being good. Shit—he’s just come, yet his flagging cock twitches pathetically at the prospect. 

Wonwoo can’t leave marks in such an obvious place. But there are ways to punish and soothe skin until any evidence perishes. 

“I w’s good?” Chan slurs once Wonwoo stops kissing him, instead rolling to curl next to him, scooping him up to his side. “Hyung?” He nuzzles into the junction of Wonwoo’s neck, a leg tossing over Wonwoo’s. 

“Thank you,” Wonwoo mutters into his hair. Mint. “You were good, the best. Mine.”

Chan nuzzles further, as if trying to bleed into Wonwoo’s body. They don’t have much time left to lounge, Wonwoo knows. He spent most of their final hour exploring his property. 

“Yours,” Chan whispers, “Just wanna be yours.” 

Oh, the dangerous way Wonwoo’s lungs inflate, filling the space until they press against his ribcage. “You are. Only mine.” 

Chan unfurls in his embrace, going boneless. And as much as Wonwoo wants to enjoy this moment, burrow a little hole and live there for at least the next few days, their alarm is going to go off any second now, and Chan will have to strip out of Wonwoo’s clothes and return to his shell. There aren’t enough hours in a day—that has become more apparent than ever, now. 

Wonwoo is done getting ready, Chan’s belongings packed in a little backpack and slung over Wonwoo’s shoulder, when Chan showers and dresses in his own bedroom. He meets Wonwoo out in the foyer with his hair still dry—he washed it last night and Jihye will kill him if he arrives to set with his hair already damp—exercise clothes clinging to his body. He’s lost a few kilograms, set to lose a few more for future brand deals, and it shows in the gradual loosening of his grey work out tee. Thankfully, his body clings to the fat and muscle of his legs and ass. 

For Wonwoo’s selfish sake, yes, but also his athletic body is supposed to be his appeal. That range of acceptability continues to narrow over time, unfortunately. 

“Ready?” Wonwoo asks, handing Chan his iced coffee. 

Chan takes a long sip, lashes fluttering, then exhales a, “Now I am.” 

They drive the short distance to the company building. Chan has to finish filming with Junhui, according to the itinerary Sungmin and Jinho sent to Wonwoo the day prior. “We have a conference after this,” Wonwoo prattles off to Chan as they walk down the hall towards the dance studio, “to discuss the week’s schedules. Jinho-ssi mentioned more vlog content, but I’m sure he told you.” There are staff members weaving in and out of the room—both for Junhui and Chan—stacks of equipment and empty equipment boxes lining the walls. There’s a quiet buzz of conversation and clattering. 

“Yesterday, yeah,” Chan says, eyes trained ahead. The moment they’d hopped out of the van and started towards the backdoor, he’d snapped into this: stern face, straight back, square shoulders. Walking with purpose and energy that his coffee couldn’t have given to him yet. “I’m a glorified Youtuber for the next few weeks.” 

It’s true, despite the automatic way Wonwoo’s lips part to deny it. Ambassador work, vlog content, guest appearances with other idols… Youtuber, definitely. He doesn’t want to lie. Instead, Wownoo says, “Your fans will enjoy it. They don’t get to see much of the behind-the-scenes you.” 

Chan hums. Distracted, gaze scanning each staff that squeezes by them. As soon as a few begin to notice their arrival, his face molds into a chirpier disposition, and he bows and smiles, greeting, “Good morning!” to anyone that bothers to pay attention. Wonwoo will never get accustomed to the flip that switches, lights turning on and pouring out from Chan’s pores on command. 

It’s an instinctual wave the second they enter the busy studio; he’s whisked off to get his hair and makeup done by Jihye and another stylist Wonwoo doesn’t quite remember the name of; the sound production team is working on getting Junhui’s microphone clipped onto his shirt in the other corner of the room. Wonwoo moves to stand by Junhui’s manager—Xu Minghao, a man Wonwoo remembers them hiring several years ago to help Junhui feel ‘at ease in his environment’—which is practical, if Junhui needed help with translation. And the intentions were good, Wonwoo assumes, since having another Chinese person in close proximity probably eases some uncertainty and nerves Junhui may have being surrounded by foreigners. 

But, Wonwoo understands from the grapevine, and from commentary from Minghao himself, that their relationship is tumultuous at worst, stiffly professional at best. They’re very different people, and it’s not in a way that complements what the other person is lacking. It’s like mashing two mismatched puzzle pieces until the cardboard bends and is made to fit. Awkward, yet somehow operating well enough to last. 

Minghao says nothing as Wonwoo takes his spot beside him. He’s got his arms crossed, hair slightly out of place, watching quietly while Junhui chats amicably to the woman putting him together. There are two other artists either fussing with his hair or applying concealer to his blemishes. Always on a short time crunch, calltime twenty mere minutes away. The cameramen fiddle with their equipment, some already prepared and actively filming the chaos for 8-teen’s future behind the scenes content. 

“All of this for a dance practice,” Wonwoo mumbles. 

“And for the interview,” Minghao says. 

Wonwoo glances at him. “Interview?” He hadn’t heard of this. 

“Technically. They’re supposed to talk about 8-teen’s future comeback in ‘natural’,” he uses quotation marks, “conversation. Sooyeon-ssi is telling them.” Minghao nods in Chan’s direction, and, sure enough, their director is explaining something to Chan while shoving a handheld camera into Chan’s hands. A cheap ploy to promote another idol group via Chan. But, of course—why did Wonwoo expect anything different? 

He has nothing useful or kind to say to that. So, he answers, “Interesting,” and tugs his phone out of his jacket pocket. If Minghao responds, he doesn’t hear it; Wonwoo flicks over to KaTalk and goes to his conversation thread with Minjun. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Busy as ever. We’re doing lots of damage control still, so he has ads and vlogs to film for the foreseeable future. I’m just here to make sure he gets to his schedules on time and stays out of trouble. Nothing different than what you’ve heard. 

My life really isn’t that exciting, so I don’t have a lot to share. My work is my life kk. [6:02 a.m.] 

Once both Chan and Junhui are released and ready to film, they meet in the center of the studio. The continuous bustle of staff carries on around them while Junhui flails his arms, saying something to Chan in an excited manner. Chan, concrete smile wide and plastered to his face, widens his eyes, raises his manicured brows, and listens. He doesn’t say much in the few minutes they have to talk without interruption, lips occasionally moving in affirmation. Wonwoo stares until they’re approached by Sooyeon and cameramen, grabbing Chan and Junhui’s attention. Then there’s a longer moment of explanation, Chan presents his handheld camera, and they instruct him on how to position themselves for both men to be seen in the viewfinder. 

A call for silence by Sooyeon—and it’s showtime. 

They’re naturals at this point. The switch is an elastic snapping into place, Junhui’s grin too wide for his jaw, Chan’s eyes going rounder than ever. Chan starts the camera and holds it so they can watch themselves speak, introduces the scene and setting in the lilt Wonwoo has grown very accustomed to— _we’re in the studio, about to finish up our cover for the channel!_ —while Junhui nods along and interjects whenever he can without too much overlap. 

It’s an awkward, disjointed mess that’s edited and tugged together to tell a cohesive story once uploaded: they stop and go probably hundreds of times, whether they fumble up their words and have to do another take—or Sooyeon wants to switch to another camera angle—or it’s time to move on from one topic to the next, which calls for changing positions. They film the pseudo-interview first while they’re still clean and dry, Chan asking leading questions about 8-teen’s dark concept while Junhui prattles off his rehearsed lines. _We as a group wanted to do something different for this comeback, to show diverse sides to us and to our voices, y’know?_ As Chan makes eye contact and pretends to show interest—as if Junhui is not only a friend, but also a labelmate, and there aren’t five different cameras pointing at them, twice as many staff members giving them their undivided attention. 

This isn’t anything different. Wonwoo’s eyes glaze over after the six-hundredth take and he diverts his attention back to his phone, flicking through his active conversation threads. Messages from Soonyoung about returning to Seoul tomorrow. Messages from Minjun inquiring about things Wonwoo doesn’t want to share. Messages from his family he neglected to respond to. Then, his final message from Chan— 

_Then make me yours._

Wonwoo glances up from his screen then, just in time to watch them setting up to record the final pieces of the dance cover. If Chan is feeling sore from taking cock the night prior, he absolutely does not show it; he’s all business as usual, fists twisting in the material at his waist, eyes narrowed and scraping over the studio floor, mirrors, then at the viewfinder to make sure no one else can be seen in the angle except him and Junhui. He glides around, seamless, the thick shape of his legs accentuated by his leggings. Wonwoo follows along as Chan ambles back and forth, a pendulum, remembering where he is and what he’s meant to be doing (supervising. Supervising and _not_ ogling.) whenever his phone buzzes in his palm and he looks down to a new message from either Soonyoung or Minjun. 

**Kwon Soonyoung**

what’s your schedule looking like tomorrow night???? 

Can u take a fwe hours off to drink w us!! @.@ [8:12 a.m.] 

**Park Minjun**

I’m not trying to pry nor tell you what to do, so please don’t take this wrong. 

You know me. I hope. 

But I worry for your health. They give you zero work-life balance and I know you Wonwoo. You need your time to destress. Have you been reading? Anytime to use your pc?? [7:59 a.m.] 

And this may be too forward so tell me to shut the fuck up and i will, but-- 

How is your love life? [8:13 a.m.] 

He wants to tell him to shut the fuck up. It’s irrational and visceral, but it’s there nonetheless, bubbling up underneath his skin like carbonation. Wonwoo stares at the words until they blur into a mess of watercolor and he has to blink his eyes into focus. He… doesn’t know exactly how to respond to it, though, even if he wanted to. Realistically, Minjun is right. Of course Minjun is right; he’s seldom wrong, whether that be on tests or about Wonwoo and the course of his life. The facts: Wonwoo has zero work-life balance. He can pretend to construct one, mentally portioning off what to count as managerial work and what counts as leisure time… but that doesn’t erase the fact that leisure time is nonexistent. The most leisure he’s had in the past half-decade are the occasional outings with Soonyoung, the quick trips home, the very rare moments he went to fuck someone while he was certain Chan was asleep. 

The most, most recent ‘leisure time’ he’s had was sucking bruises into Chan’s thighs, having Chan thank him and thanking Chan in return. And that bleeds into Wonwoo’s love life. How _is_ his love life? Is he in love? 

Wonwoo finds Chan’s reflection in the studio mirrors. Junhui and Chan are on the third take, and his chestnut hair is damp, framing his face in rivulets that snake down his throat. A sheen catches under the fluorescents, leaving a glow on the high of Chan’s cheekbones, his forehead. And his eyes, once round and polite during the ‘interview’, are now dark obsidian, watching himself as he flows to the beat. As the song pulses deep in Wonwoo’s chest, everyone is quiet, contemplative. Junhui keeps up, but where Junhui leads in tempo, Chan beats him out in power and technique. 

The beat rattles Wonwoo’s ribs, has his lungs sputter and fight to bring in air. Pinesol hangs heavy around him, enveloping, oppressive. Chan’s back curves in a pretty little half-moon, and suddenly Wonwoo smells and feels none of it. 

Yeah. He’s in love. 

He’s known this entire time, so he’s not sure why this comes to him like a puncture wound. Chan said _I trust you_ and Wonwoo thought _I love you, too_. Chan at twenty, bold and confident, willing to be so vulnerable and give every fucking centimeter of himself to Wonwoo. 

_If I could give myself to anyone I wanted, I’d give myself to you_.

I love you, too.

**Jeon Wonwoo**

I can make time for you, definitely. 

Message me when you’re back with a time and place! [8:43 a.m.] 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Not healthy, I know. Not reading or playing much pc games, no. 

I need to take better care of my health, yeah. You’re right. I don’t know. Everything is a mess right now. [8:56 a.m.] 

“ _Cut_!” Sooyeon shouts. Chan and Junhui relax where they stand, posed and panting. 

I love you, too. 

  
  


Wonwoo’s body knows to hand Chan his water bottle when Chan approaches him after filming. Minghao moves from Wownoo’s side to meet Junhui by the sound producers fussing with him, and Chan immediately takes his place, sucking down gulp after gulp. Wonwoo shamelessly stares as his Adam’s apple bobs on every swallow, how a loose rivulet of sweat trails along the long, thin line of his damp throat. He chances a glance up and finds Chan already watching him, too, and Wonwoo feels his face flush hot at being caught. He focuses on a random lock of Chan’s hair instead. 

“Good?” 

Chan takes a few more sips before recapping his bottle and smacking his lips. He licks his bottom lip—Wonwoo using every decimal of strength he has to not focus in on that and think himself into a semi in the middle of a crowded dance studio—then says, “Sore.” 

Wonwoo takes the bottle from him, returning it to his backpack. He hooks a strap over his own shoulder. “Your thighs?” 

Chan raises an eyebrow at him. Alright. _Not_ his thighs. That’s the only answer his body needs to draw attention to the blood rushing south. Shit. “Sorry,” Wonwoo croaks. 

“I like it,” Chan shrugs, “What do we have to do now?” 

Right. His job. Wonwoo, flustered, taps through his phone to give another glance at the schedule Jinho sent. “Conference,” he croaks, trying his damndest to not overthink the _I like it_. “To discuss future projects.” 

“Vlogs,” Chan doesn’t miss a beat. He punctuates it with a quick eye roll. “How long do we have?” 

“Twenty.” 

“Let me say goodbye.” 

Wonwoo observes as Chan performs his usual routine, bowing to the staff, helping move or carry something if it looks like they need it, saying an extra word or two to Junhui and Minghao. His phone buzzes again, and he doesn’t have to read the notification banner to know it’s Minjun’s response. He unlocks his phone, is greeted with an essay of a message, his mind tells him, _nope!_ , and he promptly slides out of the app and locks his phone again. He can’t do this right now. Not now. 

He’s busy. 

When Chan is finished working the room, he loops back around to Wonwoo. And Wonwoo has to triple guess himself before he concludes that it _won’t_ be weird to press a few fingers to the small of Chan’s back to usher him out the door and into the hall without attracting unwanted attention. But when he does—and when Chan doesn’t react nor respond like it’s anything unusual—Wonwoo begins to agonize over what their normal was before that collar became a looming spectre on his nightstand. How often had they touched since their first kiss? In-between their one year hiatus, feelings shoved into the back of his closet with the stacks of erotica and left to fester? 

How long had Wonwoo stared at Chan before averting his gaze? How often had they touched out in public? _Out_ of public eye? Is it normal to strip Chan with his eyes? How often had he done _that_ prior to being the first man to give Chan a cock? (Too often. Way too fucking often. And Wonwoo thought that his dreams becoming reality would help calm the storm that crackles and pours whenever he lingers on Chan’s gorgeous form, but the truth is that it hasn’t. It’s gotten worse—much, _much_ worse—to the point that Wonwoo can feel his arousal simmering if he doesn’t attach a leash and restrain it in his subconscious.) 

Chan isn’t acting any differently. At least, not where eyes can see. Which is to be expected from someone so meticulous about the curation of his persona; Wonwoo understands and respects this. It’s just that. It’s another reminder that Chan will forever be more than Wonwoo ever will be, is ever _willing_ to be. At thirteen, at twenty, today, forever. The control Wonwoo has been given over Chan is an illusion, refracted light pooling into an ocean, much like Chan’s reputation. 

He can acknowledge that as he uses a towel to pat Chan's damp hair and face instead of just handing it off for Chan to do it himself. He can acknowledge that and yet does nothing about it as he hands off some multi-grain crackers he packed for Chan, the two walking towards the elevators as Chan nibbles at them. And Wonwoo—stupid, shameful fucking Jeon Wonwoo—thumbs at the corner of Chan’s lips to scoop up some stray crumbs, watches Chan watch him as he licks it off his fingers. Anyone could’ve seen that. The lobby isn’t busy, but there’s two receptionists, a few stray staff that work in departments Wonwoo has seldom met. 

The only indication Wonwoo receives that Chan is affected by the motion is the flutter of his lashes. Then the elevator doors drag open, presenting an empty elevator, and Chan hardens the encasing fortified over his skin. More than Wonwoo ever will be. “The conference room on the sixth floor?” Chan asks, stepping inside. 

Wonwoo steps in behind him, presses the button. “Should be.” 

Elevators door dragging closed, Wownoo’s stomach lurches as the metal death-trap carries them up and up and up. 

“Do you want to eat lunch before or after your Vlive?” Wonwoo asks. 

“Vlive?” Chan is busy scrolling through his phone, other hand feeding himself the crackers. “Didn’t know that was happening. Do I have any topics to cover?” 

Wonwoo fumbles to retrieve his phone. He taps out of the notification still hanging around from Minjun’s message, flicking to the email Sungmin sent him. “Nothing in particular. Just fan interaction. Sungmin-ssi will be supervising with me, so I just have to let him know when you’re ready so he can head over.” 

Chan hums. “We’re about to see him now, anyway.” 

“Yeah. Do you want the baked chicken or the tofu? I baked the tofu in ssamjang. The chicken I fried in sesame oil, garlic, black pepper. Fermented soybeans and cucumber for either.” 

They meet eyes. A corner of Chan’s lip quirks. “Fried? I thought you were supposed to be keeping me on a diet, hyung.” 

Wonwoo smiles shyly. “Just don’t tell anyone. If you eat the chicken you can’t have dinner. Sorry.” 

“Sacrifices.” Chan titters, then returns his attention to his phone. The elevator slows to a stop, and the doors drag open, introducing them to the sixth floor. “Maybe they’re right. You’re too soft on me to be my manager.” 

Chan walks out of the elevator, but Wonwoo pauses, lingering where he stands for a second longer before stumbling off after him. “Who told you that? Jinho-ssi?” 

“Don’t pretend like you don’t know,” Chan says around a mouthful of his final cracker. Wonwoo speeds up to match Chan’s stride, staring down at him while he speaks. “They’ve thought that for years. Especially after th’scandal.” 

That’s… true. Wonwoo has never been told directly to his face by either of them that he’s too soft on Chan, though. It’s more of an unsaid statement, caught in the disappointment in their eyes whenever Wonwoo cooks Chan’s meals when they could get a catering service to do that. When Wonwoo wipes at his sweat or massages his feet and shoulders after a particularly grueling dance practice. Wonwoo thought—believes—that that’s something a manager _should_ do for their client, no? It’s not like Chan has a massage therapist at his beck and call (as much as he needs one, Wonwoo thinks begrudgingly). 

But. Maybe it isn’t typical. 

They arrive at the conference room, and Wonwoo, automatic, pushes the door open for Chan, letting him in under his arm. Chan offers a brief flicker of a smile, his thank you, before bowing to greet everyone else in the room. Wonwoo stares dumbly. 

Maybe Wonwoo is just in love. 

Highlights of the meeting, all of which Wonwoo transcribes in his notes application—Boo Seungkwan is supposed to be there, but couldn't due to scheduling conflicts. The plan is for Chan to focus heavily on Youtube content and other paid content endeavors, which means Jinho earned Chan brand work with a flavored-seltzer water company, with an online exercise clothes brand, an interview with _Idols Weekly_ magazine concerning his upbringing and how that impacts his career today, a fanmeet competition, and—most important of all—they’ll begin filming for a short television segment. A segment that will be broadcasted on some stations, but be held permanently on KALEIDOSCOPE’s Youtube channel: _Fun in Jeju Island_. 

Seungkwan, another company soloist with a much better public reputation, has been scheduled to accompany Chan. “He’s a fantastic entertainer,” Sungmin explains, sliding a paper of activities they’ll be doing together on the island over to Chan, “and he can help with ratings. I know you two can get along, so this may be redundant, but _please_ try to get along on set. Boosadans are extremely perceptive and can make anything into a scandal if you’re not paying attention to your facial expression or body language.” 

Wonwoo sees Chan’s smile harden in his periphery. “Seungkwan hyung and I will be fine,” he answers coolly. An icy lilt hangs off the end of his sentence. He takes the paper and skims over it; Wonwoo is handed over his own paper by Sungmin, and he gives each bullet point a read, too. “Where will we be staying? Hotel? In the same room?” 

“It’s more of an interactive reality show,” Sungmin continues, “You two will be in an eight-bedroom resort on the third floor. It’s in Saekdal-dong, closer to Seogwipo forest than the ocean . . .” 

The paper reads, _hiking and horseback riding in East Jeju, theme park perusing, fishing, Dongmun market exploration, seaside dinners_ … three days total. Two nights. It seems everything has already been booked and rented in anticipation for their arrival, and they’re set to leave the day after tomorrow, bright and early at four a.m. No wonder there weren’t many activities scheduled between today and tomorrow. 

“. . . cameras will be installed in every room, and you have to carry at least two with you anywhere you go. Seungkwan will have two, too. You won’t be in the same room, but you will be across from one another on the same hallway. We need as much interaction as possible. Remember—we need content worth salvaging. Three days isn’t a lot of time, Chan, I’m sure you understand that. Here are all the options of activities you can do with him; get in contact and decide what you want to do when by tonight, and we’ll try to arrange it as such. The only ones not optional and are already set are the dinners, the horseback riding. . .” 

Wonwoo’s attention span can be fairly strong, especially after years of requiring it to be, but this is a lot of information that either doesn’t need him to be mentally present, or information that he can find on the papers sitting in front of him. He leaves Chan to it, flickering in whenever he hears something worth remembering—like what to pack, when to pack it, what time to bully Chan out of bed and into the van. Mostly, he’s preoccupied with the idea that Chan has to masquerade as best friends with Seungkwan for a few days. 

It’s a good thing. Of course it is. The internet has a short attention span whenever it comes to their favorite artists and scandals, so this can really help improve Chan’s social standing. Seungkwan is a nice kid, very passionate and charismatic. Wonwoo has never had a bad interaction with him; he arrives on sets and to joint schedules bubbly and ready to network, to make friends. Staff _adores_ him. _Wonwoo_ adores him. He just can’t… fuck. He just can’t stop thinking about—

 _Has anyone fingered you before?_

_Seungkwan hyung. Seokmin hyu—_

Oh, no. Wonwoo curls his trembling fingers into fists, hiding them underneath the table, then between his knees. Shit, shit, shit. This isn’t healthy, not appropriate, the sharp knife to the lungs that juts in-between his ribs. The hideous stab of jealousy, of annoyance at the idea of Chan having to play nice with Seungkwan. Having to touch and be touched. Seungkwan’s fingers on his hip, his arm, a shoulder, fingers that have been inside of Chan before Wonwoo ever thought of Chan like that. 

It’s irrational as fuck, and Wonwoo disgusts himself. They’re similar in age, they were boys discovering their bodies and one another’s, Wonwoo was a grown fucking man doing his _job_ at the time. Seungkwan is _nice_. 

Chan said he wants to be Wonwoo’s. Chan begged for it. There’s a collar on Wonwoo’s nightstand that Chan bought and asked Wonwoo to put on him. Stop being irrational, Jeon Wonwoo, you perverted old man. 

Except it’s all he thinks about for the remainder of the conference. He is given a folder of information, and he slides Chan’s sheets into it along with his own, bows, holds the door open for Chan, and he’s thinking about it as they amble down the hall again. Chan watches him stab the elevator door a little too hard, fingertip throbbing from the pressure, and he’s thinking about it. Chan has to ask for his water bottle three times on the way down, because Wonwoo’s head is loud with self-hate and anger and annoyance. 

“Are you okay?” Chan asks when they’re in the van, Wonwoo struggling to turn the ignition with the tremor in his hand. 

“Fine,” Wonwoo says, clipped, hating himself even more for worrying Chan. “Tired.” 

“So suddenly?” 

The engine finally purrs alive. Wonwoo flops back in his seat and balls his hands into fists, eyes trained out at the parking lot. “It was boring.” 

Chan doesn’t believe him. He can tell by the heavy silence that hangs as a curtain between them. He wasn’t very convincing in the delivery, and they’ve been with one another for too many years to keep secrets. At thirteen, Chan saw right through Wonwoo, sheer like the material of his dance costumes. What’s the point in even trying to hide it? To have some semblance of self-preservation? He already lost that the second he and Chan exchanged limits, desires. When Chan called him ssaem and he _whined_ at how bad that turned him on. 

“Seungkwan,” Wonwoo starts. His throat is dry, and his voice comes out shaky. “Think you’ll, um. It’ll be okay? The trip?” 

Silence. Fuck. Wonwoo is so obvious, it’s incredible. There’s nowhere to hide; he walks around with his skin peeled off, and Chan can see the striations in his muscle, the fat, the nerves and veins dipping in and out of sight. Chan knows and he’ll—

“I won’t fuck him, hyung,” Chan’s tone is careful, quiet. Yet it’s deafening in the quiet of the van, with the backdrop of an engine humming. “Unless you want me t—” 

“No.” The volume of it shocks even Wonwoo, and he clenches his jaw, screws his eyes shut in embarrassment. He’s allowed a few seconds of shame before a soft hand splays out over his fist, cupping it gently in its palm. Warm and calming, the tension in Wonwoo’s fingers loosen a fraction. 

“Okay,” Chan breathes. A tiny syllable, placating. “I won’t. Whatever you want.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t know what’ll escape his mouth if he opens it, so he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns over his hand, and his palm slots with Chan, fingers interlacing. It’s so _tiny_ in his, a newborn dove that he can crush easily, if he wanted. If he wanted. Chan would let him. 

“Hyung.” 

A soft mumble of acknowledgement. Wonwoo’s eyes remain closed. 

“I’ll be good. Everytime I—when he—it was you. I always thought about you.” 

Wonwoo suppresses the whine that twists in his trachea. Swallowing hard, his eyes flutter open, absently fixated at the building across from them. “Chan, just ignore me, please, I’m a fucking idiot ‘nd being irr—” 

“I like it,” Chan says. “Say I’m yours. Fuck me, _make_ me remember—” 

“Chan—” 

“I’m sorry I’m such a slut,” his grip in Wonwoo’s hand tightens, and when Wonwoo’s eyes flick over, shocked, Chan is leaning over the center console, a pink flush to his overheated cheeks, “I should’ve waited for you. T’just come into my room and _take_ me—” 

Wonwoo forces his hand out of Chan’s and immediately relatches it to Chan’s throat, a cheap substitute for the collar they’ve yet to use since that night (but they will. If it’s up to Wonwoo, he’ll keep Chan in it at the dorms, a constant reminder of what they’ve built). Chan whimpers, loud and unabashed, lashes fluttering, chin tipped back to allow Wonwoo more room to hold him there. 

“Fuck, Chan,” Wonwoo nearly growls. His cock swells in his slacks, creating a bulge across the crease of his hip that’s impossible to miss. Chan goes limp in his hold. 

Thank god for tinted windows. Thank god for lax scheduling. There’s a two-hour gap for Chan to shower and eat lunch, another half-hour for Sungmin to finish up whatever he needs to do and meet them in the common space. Chan can shower and eat in twenty minutes tops if he needs to; Wonwoo’s seen him do it plenty. Touring leaves little to no gaps for leisure, and Chan is nothing but a workaholic, constantly on the go. 

Wonwoo’s learned to keep up, match his stride without complaint. He’ll meet Chan here, in their new play space, too. Not like he can help it anymore. 

“Don’t say things you don’t mean,” Wonwoo has his lips against Chan’s jaw, closest to his chin, his slack lips, and he can feel the rabbit-fast hop of Chan’s pulse under his palm. “I don’t like liars.” 

Chan poorly suppresses another whimper. His hands scramble for purchase on Wonwoo’s bicep. “I mean it,” he gasps, “touched myself thu-thinking about you coming in my room ‘nd fucking me. Pinning me down with your arms, hyung, your _arms_ —” 

He kisses him. It’s a rough, bruising kiss, the anger and contempt he felt during the conference rushing out through his pores. In hindsight, it’s a stupid fucking idea, because Chan’s lips will probably swell up, and he has a live to do in a couple of hours—but Wonwoo isn’t thinking. He’s lost rational thought a long time ago, and Chan’s enabling his stupid, irrational behaviors, whining all sweet and high in his chest as Wonwoo ravages his mouth, licking and biting and mending only to do it all over again. 

“They kiss you like this? Your little flings?” He dives back in for more, sucking at Chan’s tongue, Chan’s breath heavy on his nose and lips when he exhales open-mouthed. 

“Nuh-no—” 

“I know. Just a bunch of kids, have no idea what they’re doing, not—” 

“Not like you, hyung, you’re—” 

“Don’t worry,” Wonwoo mouths lazily at Chan’s slack lips, fingers pressing in and relaxing in a slow beat, feeling the muscle flutter each time, “I’ll teach you. How to ride my dick, how to use that ass of yours. I’ll teach you how to make me feel good.” 

He’s lost Chan, so quickly. His eyes are marbles, glassy, tears reflecting the sunlight. And those leggings hide nothing; his cock is hard between his legs, under the stretchy material. Wonwoo reaches his free hand over to palm at him, get a loose grip around the girth, and Chan’s breath stutters, chest sticking out. “Teach me, ssaem, please, please.” 

Another kiss, this time slow and careful. “I will,” he mutters. One more kiss, slower, wetter. Chan accepts it with a pucker of his lips. “I’ll teach you.” 

How to fuck me,

how to love me. 

Wonwoo lets go of Chan’s throat. Chan flops back into his seat, breathing audibly, while Wonwoo shifts the gear into drive and backs out of their parking spot. 

They should have enough time. It’s a rush of kicking off shoes in the foyer, of Wonwoo losing Chan’s bag in the common space somewhere, of Chan saying he’s sweaty and Wonwoo insisting, “you’ll get dirty again anyway,” before tugging him into Wonwoo’s— _their_ —room. Chan seems a little shy about the prospect of being dirty from dance practice, but goes compliant once Wonwoo has him undress, immediately picks up the collar and slips it onto his neck, through the frame. “Be good,” Wonwoo chastises with a soft click of tongue. “I’d fuck you even if you had dirt smeared all over your body.” 

Chan swallows visibly, fingering at the D-ring of the collar. Fuck, Wonwoo had somehow forgotten how gorgeous Chan looks standing in his room, completely naked save for that brown leather and gold. Except this time he has watercolor splotches on his thighs, where Wonwoo made a claim earlier that day. “If I had someone else’s come on me?” Chan asks, quiet. 

“I’d eat it off, then replace it with my own,” Wonwoo matches his volume, distant, running fingertips over Chan’s shoulder, up into his semi-dry hair. Chan blinks round eyes up at him. “Get on the bed. On your stomach.” Chan doesn’t waste any time, doing as he’s told. Wonwoo turns around to watch him situate himself on the spread mattress, on top of the duvet. “Put a pillow under your hips.” Chan, again, hurriedly obeys. “My good boy.” 

“Your good boy,” Chan parrots, a sigh. 

Ethereal. Wonwoo’s blinds are pulled, but light flitters in through the cracks, illuminating the dust in the air, the natural, youthful glow of Chan’s skin. Chan’s back arches delicately with that pillow under him, each asscheek still perfectly rounded slopes in a position that would flatten out most people. Wonwoo reaches out, rubbing appreciative circles over each. Then, he gives the right one a slap, the sound of skin on skin loud, shocking a gasp out of Chan and rippling the fat and muscle. Wonwoo’s erection throbs, and he shifts it in his slacks. 

One task at a time. They have enough time, but they won’t if Wonwoo keeps getting distracted. First things first: he grabs the lube bottle from his nightstand drawer and gently sets it down by Chan’s hip. Then, he kicks off his slacks for flexibility sake, keeping his briefs on (for now), and crawls onto the bed, shifting Chan’s legs apart so he can lie between them. “Stay down,” Wonwoo orders when Chan tries to lean up on his elbows to look over his shoulder. Chan doesn’t respond within the allotted two seconds Wonwoo gives him, so he shoots a hand up and shoves Chan back down from between his shoulder blades. 

Chan remains where he’s positioned. At Wonwoo’s vantage point, he can see Chan’s waxed balls, the splay of his thighs, the red and purple bruises leading up to where his cock sits between his lower tummy and the bed. He kisses a few of the hickies, some soft, some hard, tracing their unique shapes with his tongue. The muscle twitches and jumps under each press of his lips to skin, Chan occasionally squirming his hip, mostly breathing hard. “Don’t move,” Wonwoo mutters against one, bigger mark, a curvy little splotch of brown and violet. “Let me appreciate my work.” He sinks his teeth into it, and Chan’s entire body jerks, tightens. 

“Ah,” Chan whines. It molds into a groan, then he returns to quiet panting. 

Wonwoo continues to kiss and nibble at whatever he finds, his hand cupping each swell of Chan’s ass to spread them apart. He’s greeted with the rosy brown pucker, how it clenches in response to the kisses and the room air. Wonwoo feels ravenous, suddenly, hungrily aroused. This is something he should’ve done the first fucking night. “C’mere,” he says, then shimmies up and licks a fat stripe from Chan’s balls, over his perineum and over his hole. 

Chan’s response is loud and involuntary, the way he cries out a high, “ _hyung_ ,” and ruts forward into the mattress. Wonwoo keeps him open with his two, large hands, tugging him back. 

“Shh,” Wonwoo hisses, “I said _c’mere_ , don’t fucking run,” he gives the same cheek a slap, harder, and another cry rips from Chan’s throat. It’s a noise that shoots straight down Wonwoo’s spine and into his cock. “Anyone do this for you before? Chan?”

Chan’s breaths are heavier. “No,” he gasps, “nuh—” 

“Another first, then,” Wonwoo says to his hole, then dives back in. He’s sloppy, horny out of his mind; he gives slow, languid licks, taking his time running over every ridge of furled muscle. Chan’s salty, yeah, tasting like sweat and natural musk, but Wonwoo’s long since accepted he’s a pervert that would get off on sucking Chan’s toes. It’s hot, knowing Chan had spent hours dancing and is now here, spread out like a full-course meal, and Wonwoo’s nibbling and sucking and lapping at the hole he’s going to fuck like a dog. 

All of it is primitive. Animalistic. Chan’s whimpering, his bucking, Wonwoo fucking into the mattress while eating Chan out, saliva smeared over his chin and cheeks. He pushes past the resistance with the tip of his tongue, groaning when Chan blooms open for him to dive in. Once he’s as far as he can muster, he closes his lips around his hole and sucks, _hard_ , a filthy sound of spit filling the room. “Hyung, hyung, _ah_ —fuh—” Chan is begging above him, muffled from the blanket he stuffs into his mouth. One more slap, an answering yelp, and Wonwoo distracts Chan with more sucking while pushing to his own knees and grabbing the lube. 

Wonwoo drizzles some lube onto three fingers. He pushes the first one in with no warning, sliding it beside his insistent tongue, not stopping until it’s in to the hilt. Chan’s ass opens nicely for him now that it’s lax and wet, but Chan gasps and jerks like Wonwoo slapped him again. “Uh-uhh,” Chan tries, body fighting him while he fights it, stilling for Wonwoo to use. Wonwoo’s possession. 

“Mine,” Wonwoo whispers against his ass, watching his own fingers work Chan open methodically, one to two to three. The stretch is tight, and his fingers are long and can crook in deep—but Chan has had his cock before. He can take it. And he’ll take it again. “Wish you could see yourself, Channie. Fuck, you’re sexy.” 

Chan writhes, clenching around him. “Your—your cock.” 

“Hm?” 

“Want your cock now, ssaem, teach me how to please you.” 

Wonwoo sits up on his knees fully, using his free hand to slap Chan’s other cheek. It bounces, and Chan yelps, bucks away. “Impatient slut,” he tests, sounding bolder and more confident in it than he feels. But he receives the intended reaction, Chan moaning and going, _yeah, yeah, I’m your slut, want it now,_ instead of the aghast look of judgement, betrayal, like his anxious mind expected. “Alright. Up.” 

Chan slowly sits up and turns, looking dazed and a bit confused at the instruction, while Wonwoo gets off the bed and kicks his own briefs off. The pillow that had Chan propped up is wet and sticky with his precome, Chan’s dick fully hard and bobbing between his legs. Wonwoo licks his lips, uses the back of his hand to wipe off some of the mess from his chin, and then picks up the lube. “Like this,” he says, then he’s moving Chan down the bed, shoving the soiled pillow away, and taking the spot Chan once was, except he’s on his back. 

Wonwoo tugs Chan up to straddle his thighs, and Chan complies. Wonwoo hands him the open bottle. “Get me nice and wet and sit on my cock. You’re gonna do all the work today. Okay, baby?” 

Chan studies the labelless bottle, turning it in his palm, then nods. He’s flushed, a thin sheen on his cheeks and upper lip, hair mussed. Wonwoo can see him trying to reorient himself from the fog he’d gotten lost in while Wonwoo ate him out. “Okay,” he breathes, “yessir.” 

Then there’s the steady weight of Chan’s body on Wonwoo’s legs, Chan’s wet, slender hand wrapping around the base of his cock. Wonwoo watches his fingers struggle to cover the girth of him, sliding up and down in a _schlick_ _schlick_ cadence. He struggles to keep his wits about him, taking in even breaths, pinning himself to the mattress to not fuck up in time with Chan’s strokes. But, it’s difficult; Chan looks adorable and obscene, a mismatch of endearment-arousal gurgling in Wonwoo’s insides. He’s concentrating on his own hand, on stroking Wonwoo to get his dick lubricated enough for him to take. And his palm is heaven, soft, tiny, making Wonwoo’s huge dick appear so much bigger in comparison. 

“That’s it,” Wonwoo stutters, knocking his head back on his pillow. 

“Huge,” Chan sighs, “how did you get in me before?” 

Wonwoo reaches around to squeeze both of his cheeks with two hands. Chan bucks, spine bowing. “We’re about to find out. C’mon. Sit on my cock.” 

Chan licks his lips, nods. The mushroom rivets of his collar catch light as he adjusts, sitting up, scooting forward, and reaching behind to hold Wonwoo’s dick and line it up with his hole. Wonwoo rubs circles into his hips, down both thighs, squeezing intermittently to feel the muscle displace between his fingers. “Breathe,” Wonwoo says, “remember. Relax for me.” 

He gives a jerky nod, eyes faraway, then starts to sit, Wonwoo’s cockhead pressing at the tight coil of muscle. Too tense. 

“Chan,” Wonwoo says. Chan swallows hard, presses harder. “Look at me. Look.” Chan looks. “Don’t look away. I got you. Keep going and breathe.” He stares as Chan stares back, focusing, and Wonwoo starts to give Chan lazy strokes along his neglected cock, paying attention to the frenulum with a thumb. 

Chan quivers. “Mm,” he hums, then hums lower. Wonwoo can feel muscle finally opening up to accept him, impossibly tight heat stretching and clamping around his cockhead. “Oh-ah— _hyu_ —” He’s sinking, taking Wonwoo centimeter by centimeter, lube and air squelching. Shit, Wonwoo doesn’t know how long he can last, each piece of the picture creating a cohesive image: Chan once more being breached by the only man to ever have him this way, Chan with that fucking _collar_ strapped to his neck, Chan trying to be a good boy. Trying hard, ever so diligent. A fast learner. 

Wonwoo’s cock takes its rightful place, remodeling Chan’s muscle into its shape. “You’re,” Chan starts, “s’much bigger—this—way—” he whines. It’s another balance of stop-go, Wonwoo mumbling encouragement while fisting Chan’s cock, other hand still massaging his thigh. 

“You can take it,” Wonwoo says, “almost there, Channie.” 

They both let out a heavy breath when Chan’s ass meets Wonwoo’s thighs. Chan’s so tight and warm that it doesn’t feel like Wonwoo should be fitting the way he is—and Chan is actively fighting to maintain eye contact with Wonwoo, body leaning over to one side, wet mouth going slack. Wonwoo lets go of Chan’s cock and uses two hands to roam up and around Chan’s slender waist, over his back, then over again to tug at his nipples. They’re pert, hard, giving as Wonwoo twists them between thumb and index finger. 

“There you go,” he sighs. “G’nna—g’nna put this dancer’s body to good use?” 

Chan is rhythmically clenching around him, as if trying to milk Wonwoo’s orgasm from him, suck him dry. He clamps down on his bottom lip and wills his hips to stay where they are, allow Chan to roll on his own and adjust. “Yeah,” Chan’s response is delayed, absent. 

“Ride me like you mean it. Do a good job for hyung. Can you?” 

“Yes.” 

Wonwoo lands a palm onto Chan’s sensitive inner thigh, hard, and Chan cries out, jumping. It causes Wonwoo’s cock to glide partly out of him, and Chan gasps, stilling. “Yes? You know better than that.” 

“Ssaem,” Chan whines. “Yessir, yes, hyung, ssaem, I—” 

Another slap. Chan bucks, cock throbbing, leaking beads of precome. “Then do it. Color?” 

He can see him receding. Not yet, not yet. “Green,” Chan stutters. 

“Use those hips and thighs. Ride me. C’mon.” 

Chan gets to work. Tentative at first, testing out how far he can go, how much he can do without it hurting or getting too uncomfortable. Wonwoo relaxes his muscle, splaying his legs out and resting his hands idly on Chan’s bent knees, watching Chan figure it out, learning limits. He seems to realize that grinding forward nudges on that tight nerve bundle with Wonwoo’s cockhead perfectly, and so for a few spins he keeps pressure there, head knocking back and string of precome dripping onto Wonwoo’s lower belly, into his thatch of pubic hair. 

Wonwoo allows it, just until Chan is completely erect again, and then chastises, “This isn’t for your pleasure, Chan. If you can’t do it right ge—” 

“No,” Chan says, “I’ll, I got it, ‘gonna…” He tries different angles, rocking, lifting up and dropping more and more in growing confidence. It’s probably the sexiest thing Wonwoo has ever had the pleasure of witnessing—and he’s seen a lot of porn, had sex with some beautiful people, before they discovered he was nothing but a pretty face. 

He wants to take the time to just sit and enjoy it. So, he does. He lets Chan sort it out, groaning softly, rubbing his thumbs in circles, pressing into random bruises. 

Chan is art. Everything about who he is. His laughter, his boldness, the way he stares wide-eyed at Wonwoo with all this naïve trust that both terrifies and arouses Wonwoo. And if Chan is nothing else, he’s a boundary-pusher, willing to spring past his own capabilities if it means putting on a good show. He puts on a good show: spine arching as he leans back, shifting into a crouching position so he can lean back on his hands—which are holding onto Wonwoo’s thighs, and rock up and down the length of Wonwoo’s thick, thick cock. 

“Oh, shit,” Chan says, mostly to himself. His eyes lose focus in his concentration, jaw hanging. Quickly, he has a fast, steady rhythm going, lube squelching, asscheeks bouncing against Wonwoo’s pelvis loudly. There’s their combined pants, skin meeting skin, air pushing out past Wonwoo’s cock, lubricant dripping. “S’big. Big, shit, hyung.” 

Wonwoo finds Chan’s delicate ankles and holds on with both hands. Jesus, Chan’s chest sticking out by consequence of his spine bowing shouldn’t be so hot, but it is. His pecs are demarcated even if they aren’t super defined, leading down to the soft lines of Chan’s toned stomach. “You look so pretty like this,” Wonwoo gasps, “Y’know how pretty you are?” 

Chan shakes his head, wet fringe swinging. “Tell me, ssaem, wanna know.” 

“Prettiest, _fuck_ , like you were made for this.” 

He does some swivels with his hips, graceful as ever, and Wonwoo moans louder than he should. “Was made for you,” Chan moans in return, “Was made for you to fuck me.” 

It’s decided. His parents are getting that winter coat and running shoes. “Baby,” Wonwoo says on an almost crazed laugh, “ _shit_. Such a fast learner. Chan, I—” No. He swallows it back down where it came from, shifts gears. “You trust me?” 

The skin-slapping is piercing. Chan is fucking himself on Wonwoo’s entire length, thigh muscle flexing in the strain. He can’t stop moaning, like he’ll die if he doesn’t let Wonwoo know exactly how good it feels to be fucked open by him. “I trust you,” he affirms, albeit shakily. “Yours, yours, tell me I’m—” 

“Good job, best, th’best,” Wonwoo’s throat is tightening up. His throat hurts, eyes burn, and there’s that telltale heat coiling in his groin, numbing his spine. “Ride cock like a pro. My little slut.” 

A whine Wonwoo’s never heard from Chan before escapes, rhythm momentarily breaking. “Yeah?” 

Wonwoo grabs both of Chan’s asscheeks tight, possessive and firm, so that there’s no question whom he belongs to, and shifts onto his feet so he can start meeting Chan’s downstrokes with bucking up. Chan’s mouth falls open even further, breath hitching in his throat. “Yeah. My own slut,” Wonwoo answers. His head is swimming, lead-heavy with lust. “Was a virgin before me, weren’t you, baby?” 

Chan has stopped moving, keeping himself up with Wonwoo’s thighs as leverage, as Wonwoo takes over and fucks him deep, fast, chasing his orgasm. His neglected cock bobs, precome messy, endless strings. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he starts sobbing, tears following the curve of his cheekbones, “I didn’t— _uuhn_ —mean to, I should’ve waited—” 

“But, you did. You waited. Waited for me to come pin you down and fuck you?” 

Nothing. Chan’s gone rigid, no longer breathing, eyes far-away. Wonwoo doesn’t stop pounding into him, feeling his ass ripple in his palms. Oh, shit, Chan’s so pretty crying on cock. He’s fucked. He’s going to hell. He’s going to have to apologize to Chan’s parents for corrupting him when he should be _helping_ him. This is bad, horribly wrong. 

“To force me,” Chan’s brain finally flickers back on from death, “Own me, beat me if I don’t behave—” 

_Fuck_. Enough. Enough, enough. If that’s what Chan thinks he wants, Wonwoo will show him. He’ll show him what he’s capable of being, show him a glimpse of the monster that rattles the jail of Wonwoo’s ribcage; he tugs Chan off of his dick, not letting Chan do much more than shriek as he forces him face-first into the pillow. “Take it,” Wonwoo growls, not even recognizing his own inflection, that it’s his voice speaking aloud, and twists a fist in Chan’s hair as he crawls behind him, lines his cock up, and shoves back in. 

It’s not gentle, not cognizant of Chan’s feelings. Chan’s sob is muffled in the cotton pillowcase, and Wonwoo uses his other hand to hold his hip up, angled perfect for Wonwoo to force-fuck Chan open in one, firm stroke. He’s spasming around Wonwoo’s dick, tiny fists scrambling for purchase on the duvet. 

“Coming?” Wonwoo asks, incredulous. He keeps pumping fast into him, jackrabbiting to his own climax. “Holy shit, you’re coming, Chan? You really are a slut, aren’t you? You wanted that? Me _forcing_ you?” 

No doubt about it—Chan is coming. Wonwoo felt it yesterday, convulsing muscle, Chan struggling around him. Wonwoo took what he wanted and Chan came untouched. He’s so turned on by that realization his head _spins_. 

A few more hard, gasping thrusts and Wonwoo comes deep in Chan’s ass, shoved as far as he can physically go, marking territory. Chan is shuddering in his tight grasp, still audibly crying. Wonwoo allows himself a few more, lazy rocks into Chan, milking out the remnants of his release, then pulls out and watches Chan’s hole struggle to clench down. The muscle remains gaping, lube and milky-white seed pouring out and down his perineum. 

“Fuck,” Wonwoo says, breathless. He turns Chan’s head so his face is no longer in the pillow. “Color? Chan, I need your color, okay?” 

Chan sniffles, nods. “Gre-een. Green.” 

Wonwoo immediately assumes the same position he was in before Chan rode him, between Chan’s legs, spreading his cheeks apart with two palms and sucking at his hole. 

Chan practally screams. “Hyung, hyun—g—wait—” He _sounds_ like he’s been crying, voice wet, desperate. Wonwoo’s flagging cock does a weak kick, and he growls, tasting himself on Chan’s sweaty skin. Down his perineum, laving over his balls, then plunging into his hole, lapping. A filthy dog eating its own come. Chan writhes and squirms beneath him, both running from and chasing Wonwoo’s tongue. “Wonwoo hyung, ah, _ah_ , please.” 

He doesn’t stop until he can’t see anymore of his seed leaking out. Chan has been crying on and off, overstimulated, while Wonwoo worked, and now he lies wrung out on the sheets, in his own mess. 

Wonwoo leans up and kisses into his damp hair. He can taste and smell the hairspray Jihye used, Chan’s sweat. “Thank you,” he says. He lies down on top of Chan, just half of his body so he doesn’t crush Chan to death. “Thank you for trusting me.” 

Chan is quiet for a few seconds. Then, he laughs lazily, shoulders trembling. “Are you going to thank me everytime?” 

“I am.” Wonwoo doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m thankful you trust me. Is that wrong?” 

Silence. Wonwoo snakes his arms under Chan’s middle and flops onto his side, tugging Chan along with him until they’re in a spooning position, Wonwoo curling over Chan’s slighter form. Chan relaxes in his hold, one hand coming to rest on his forearm, trace fingers up towards his wrist. They’re sweaty and dirty and definitely need to get up and out of bed to shower and eat, but Wonwoo doesn’t want to. They still have time. He wants to feel Chan’s damp, bare skin against his, moist warmth sealing them together. A cocoon, a realm where no one else can find him. Not yet. 

Wonwoo leans over to kiss the leather of Chan’s collar, then his shoulder, and then rests his chin on the crown of Chan’s head. 

He thinks that maybe Chan has fallen asleep when he unfurls in his embrace, silence filling where his response should’ve gone. Then Chan stirs, tucking his feet in-between Wonwoo’s legs, and mutters, “It’s not...” sentence faltering, unsure. 

“Good,” Wonwoo whispers, “then it’s fine. I trust you, you trust me, I’m happy. Okay?” 

Chan squirms. His hair tickles Wonwoo’s jaw, cheeks, layered and a chestnut brown glow that compliments the gold embellishments on his collar. 

“You told me, so—so, I want you to know, too. You’re,” Wonwoo swallows hard around the resurfacing lump in his throat. Daring himself to be brave, to be the man Chan wants ( _needs_ ), he urges on his inner dialogue. “Important to me.” 

Chan tenses. Wonwoo starts to knead at any muscle he can find, willing them to relax. 

“Oh,” Chan breathes. He makes a cursory glance over his shoulder at Wonwoo, seems to find the sudden eye contact too overwhelming to handle and flops back down to face the bedroom door. “You are, too.” 

Ah. “Thank you,” Wonwoo says, dumbly. Dumbly and dumb in love. He can’t help it. 

As much as he would like to let Chan nap, destress from an early morning spent filming and re-filming and re-re-filming, Wonwoo can’t. It’s his job to take care of Chan—contractually and otherwise. He shushes Chan when he whines at Wonwoo tugging the collar off his throat, waking him from half-slumber. “‘S okay,” Wonwoo mutters into the skin of Chan’s neck, sealing consolement with a kiss, “Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” 

Chan grumbles, curls into a tighter ball. “Don’t wanna.” 

“I’ll do all the work,” Wonwoo says, “Just relax.” 

And he does. Putting the collar back on his nightstand, grabbing supplies from his closet, where he keeps the first-aid kit and other products Chan needs to survive such a hectic lifestyle. He has Chan lie prone so he can massage vapor-rub into his bruised asscheeks, between his thighs. True to Chan’s word—he doesn’t want to. He lies there and allows the massage, sighing, breath occasionally stuttering. Wonwoo completes every task with a kiss on the body part he’s soothing, a quiet _thank you_ muttered into it. 

“Alright,” Wonwoo stands by the edge of the bed, fists on his hips, staring down at a sleepy Chan who blinks lazy eyes up, “if you don’t get up I’m getting you up. Three seconds. One… two…” 

Chan shrieks when Wonwoo scoops him up as if he’s a 2kg bag of rice, giggling and writhing around futilely. “Hyung, no, c’mon, I have thirty more minutes at _least_ —!” 

“I’m warming up food for you to eat after this,” Wonwoo says, undeterred. Chan isn’t the lightest guy in the world, but Wonwoo’s muscles are for more than just his own aesthetic; he gets Chan into his bathroom and over to the shower in no time, gently sitting him on the tub lip. “And we have to be prepared before Sungmin-ssi comes bothering us.” 

He twists the shower knob, and water rushes out from the faucet, swirling the drain. “Fuck ‘Sungmin-ssi’,” Chan mutters. 

“I agree,” Wonwoo says, “but he’s going to be a pain in our ass for the foreseeable future, so let’s try to not make life harder for either of us. Okay?” 

No more arguing from Chan. Though he does ask, “Are we showering together?” in a quiet voice that has Wonwoo struggling to not fuck him again against the bathroom tiles. 

Cute. Arousingly cute. 

“I want to,” Wonwoo parrots the quiet tone. He brushes Chan’s fringe back from his face; Chan leans into the touch. “Do you?” 

“Yeah.” 

Wonwoo kisses his forehead. “Okay.” 

They shower together. Wonwoo washes his hair for him. Towels him off, blots at his hair when they’re in front of the mirror. He grabs some casual clothes for Chan to wear before dressing himself, then as Chan preps in his own room, he warms up the chicken, grabs the kimchi he prepped from the other fridge, and sets it up in the common room. 

The front door’s lock pad beeps while he’s pouring a tall glass of water and sitting it on a folded napkin, right next to Chan’s lunch. His own hair is damp and flops around, smudging his glasses. 

“Something smells good.” It’s unmistakably Sungmin, meeting Wonwoo by the couch and dressed casually. Must’ve come from the other floor. “You cooked this?” 

He’s not sure why that’s a surprise. Wonwoo’s been cooking for Chan for years. But, “Yeah,” he entertains. Their eyes meet—Wonwoo in front of the couch, by the food, and Sungmin behind the couch, resting an arm on its back. “Diet-safe; don’t worry.” 

Sungmin quirks an eyebrow at him. “Didn’t know you were still doing that. Don’t have enough work to do?” He’s carrying a duffel bag with the company phone and stand, other assorted equipment required for the vlive. 

Wonwoo watches him circle the couch and begin to set up. “Does it matter what I do in my free time?” 

If Sungmin’s surprised by the snip to his tone, he doesn’t show it other than his already-quirked eyebrow climbing higher. “No,” he starts, careful, “it was just a question.” 

A question weighed down with lead, poisoning the air Wonwoo breathes. Or maybe Wonwoo has become paranoid, terrified that the glint in Sungmin’s eyes can see right into his memories, carving out the ones where he slaps Chan’s thighs until they’re forest fires. Everything has turned up in sensitivity, and Wonwoo has no way of ascertaining which are rational fears and which are nonsensical. 

When up in flames, all Wonwoo can see is soot and ash. 

“Sure,” Wonwoo says. “Chan will be out in a minute.” 

  
  


“Your hair is longer,” Soonyoung says around a mouthful of gochujang chicken wing, “I like it. Handsome Jeon Wonwoo.” 

“Looks run in the family,” Mingyu affirms. He’s watching Soonyoung chew open-mouthed, a napkin at the ready for when he’s done so he can dab at the sauce on his chin. “His brother’s an _actor_.” 

“Wonwoo _looks_ like an actor.” 

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. His brother—” 

Wonwoo self-consciously fingers his fringe. They’re right. It’s gotten longer, getting trapped under the circle frames of his glasses and playing into his eyelashes. He meant to get a haircut—or just go _fuck it_ and chop it off himself one morning—but life never slows down, and he’s tired and lazy whenever he has gaps in-between catering to Chan’s needs. 

They’re sitting in a booth at a bar, and it’s loud and packed at this time of night. The table is crowded with soju bottles, shot glasses, water, and dinner. Some half-eaten, some finished. Wonwoo’s been picking at his fried pickles, intestines twisting tighter and tighter the longer he has to sit and listen to the two recall how their Chuseok went. Thankfully, they’ve somewhat moved past it, and Wonwoo doesn’t have to pretend to not want to want that, a happy ending. Proudly wiping sauce off of his boyfriend’s face and cooing. Endeared and enamored and not two seconds from barfing up alcohol, water, pieces of fried pickle. 

“How is it?” Soonyoung asks Wonwoo. 

Wonwoo blinks, slow. “Huh? The pickles? Good.” 

“No, dumbass,” Soonyoung rolls his eyes, tipping away as Mingyu is insistent on rubbing red sauce from his lips, “being effortlessly hot. You’re in a hoodie and dorky glasses and _still_ look like a model. People keep staring at our table.” 

A bittersweet smile twists Wonwoo’s mouth in a few directions. “You should ask your boyfriend; they’re staring at him, not me.” Somewhat true. He’s grown accustomed to his power, how to fool someone into being interested with his looks alone; that isn’t a secret. It’s been a means of survival since high school, slipping through the cracks undetected. 

And now that he’s gained muscle mass, the attention has gotten worse. He hasn’t been to bars or clubs often, considering his job is twenty-four seven—but this is a gentle reminder that he has to try harder to be ugly so no one harasses him. 

As cocky as that sounds. 

(Ironic, how Minjun had none of Wonwoo’s advantages and yet is making strides Wonwoo could never even dream of. Pathetic.) 

“Us,” Mingyu corrects, “they’re looking at _us_.” 

Soonyoung swipes Mingyu’s hand away. “Okay, okay, no more preening me in public. I’m shy.” 

Mingyu and Wonwoo roll their eyes almost simultaneously. “Shy, sure,” Wonwoo clucks, “I could totally tell when you performed _live_ last month.” 

Soonyoung pouts at his empty glass of soju. Mingyu quickly fills it up, then fills Wonwoo’s. “That’s different. I was a background dancer.” The glass is emptied in seconds, and Soonyoung does a full-body grimace as it goes down his esophagus. “You’re supposed to make the artist look sexier, or whatever.” 

“You used to be the sexy artist,” Mingyu says, “so your argument fails.” He refills Soonyoung’s glass. 

“Used to be? I’m not sexy anymore?” 

“You know what I mean. You still have sauce on your face, here—let me— _hyung_ —” 

Wonwoo’s seen enough. While they bicker-flirt and pretend they’re not flirting right across from a (-n allegedly) single Jeon Wonwoo, he fishes his phone out of his hoodie pocket and taps over to KaTalk. He has yet to read the message from Minjun, and it’s been over a day now. Honestly, he’s shocked Minjun hasn’t tried to send another message already; he’s persistent when he wants to be. That’s the Minjun Wonwoo remembers from childhood, at least. 

He has no idea anymore. Minjun doesn’t know Wonwoo as well as he once did, either. 

Wonwoo taps on the new message from Chan. Which—he should be in _bed_ at this time of night. 

**Lee Chan**

you should’ve taken me with you :=/ 

I’m bored [11:42 p.m.] 

There are hundreds of reasons why that wouldn’t have been a good idea. Not only dodging crazed fans, but also taking Chan out and having to pretend that he doesn’t want to suck his dick in the middle of the bar sounds like Wonwoo’s own, personal hell. Yeah. It’s better this way. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Distance makes the heart grow fonder.

Sleep. You have a very early day tomorrow. [12:03 a.m.]

“I’m not a kid,” Soonyoung whines, “gimmie the napkin—” 

**Lee Chan**

so do you and youre not here with me…. it’s lonely in this big bed without you [12:03 a.m.]

Wonwoo’s reeling over the fact that Chan is prepared to sleep in his bed, prepared to let Wonwoo walk back into his room to the sight of a Lee Chan curled up in his _duvet_ , when another message pops up. 

**Lee Chan**

[PHOTO ATTACHMENT] 

He shouldn’t. He knows what that is without even looking. _He shouldn’t_. Wonwoo chances a glance up, finds Soonyoung and Mingyu preoccupied with fighting over their napkin when there’s plenty of clean ones on the table. 

He does. 

Chan is in another one of Wonwoo’s sleepshirts, the neckline hanging low, shoulder material draping off his arms. His legs are on display, some bruises old, some new. Okay, a few are definitely shaped like Wownoo’s teeth. Had he bitten him that hard? How sensitive is that patch of skin? Fuck. 

“—Say it! Tell Wonwoo hyung you got mad that one night, because your sister loves me more than you. Tell him!” 

“That’s none of his business,” Soonyoung whines, “and also a huge lie. Don’t listen to him, hyung, he has a condition.” 

It’s Mingyu’s turn to whine. “Condition? You’re the liar that can’t admit I’m your sister’s new favorite—” 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

What the fuck. [12:09 a.m.] 

Don’t get me hard in the middle of a fucking restaurant, you demon [12:10 a.m.]

And, to be responsible in lieu of the erection threatening to embarrass the fuck out of him: 

Delete that it’s dangerous [12:14 a.m.] 

**Lee Chan**

You’re no fun, old man :=/ 

Fine. Deleting. BORING. [12:16 a.m.] 

If Chan calling him an old man turns him on more, that’s going to be a realization he buries with his other skeletons. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

You’re sexy 

Really, really sexy 

Tight little body

Need to keep hickies on you 24/7. 

But, we can’t risk that leaking. Go to sleep I’ll see you in the morning [12:21 a.m.]

“Wonwoo,” Mingyu sing-songs, tapping the glass in front of him with his fingernail. 

“Mm?” Wonwoo hums, reading over the conversation before turning his phone screen off. 

“Who are you messaging this late at night? Got a booty-call to go to after this? You deserve it.” 

Soonyoung latches onto that like a moth to flame. “One-hundred percent deserves it. Who is she? He? They?” 

Wonwoo shoots them his blankest stare. “Do I look like I have time to meet people to fuck? Is this a ploy to embarass me?” 

“We just got done calling you model-hot,” Soonyoung tries. “Why would we be embarrassing you?” 

“Looks don’t matter if I literally don’t have the time.” 

Mingyu tugs out his own phone and immediately starts tapping at it. “I’ll find you the time. I know several girls that would love to date someone like you. Smart, tall, handsome, hardworking, good family, can carr—” 

“No. I don’t—I’m. I’m fine. If I want to date, I’ll do it myself.” It’s futile, of course, because once Mingyu’s brain supplies him a thought, he’ll ruminate over it until he’s driven himself or somebody else nuts. It’s a wonder how Soonyoung tolerates him. Maybe because they’re the same brand of insufferable. 

Must be, since Soonyoung is encouraging this invasive behavior, watching over Mingyu’s shoulder as he scrolls, intermittently pointing and going, “He’ll love her. Oh—wait—no, her. Her!” Soonyoung glances at a flustered Wonwoo. “Do you like petite chicks or tall ones? I remember you showed me your ex once and she was _tiny_ , so ma—” 

“ _Stop_ ,” Wonwoo urges. He reaches across the table to swipe at Mingyu’s phone, but Mingyu is faster and dodges it. “Guys—I’m—I’ve _got_ someone.” 

Music and surrounding conversation fill in the space where Mingyu and Soonyoung once were; now they’re gaping at him, frozen in place like a poor rendition of a renaissance painting. “Huh?” Mingyu asks. “You just said you don’t have time and now you do?” 

Choosing the lesser of two evils doesn’t feel so beneficial anymore. Wonwoo can see Soonyoung gradually lighting up realtime, eyes going wide, mouth hanging open, eyebrows lifting towards his hairline. And it’s absolutely too late for damage control, but Wonwoo frowns and says, “I lied,” anyway, brain whirring, grabbing onto any excuse it can find. “Because, it’s—new.” 

“New?” Soonyoung gasps. 

“New?” Mingyu tuts, incredulous. 

“Yeah,” Wonwoo says, “so I didn’t wanna jinx it.” 

“Jinx it,” Soonyoung repeats. 

Mingyu’s brows furrow. “What? You don’t believe in jinxi—” 

“ _Please_ let me handle this,” Wonwoo raises his volume to obscure the end of Mingyu’s very true, very obnoxious statement. “I’m a grown adult; I want to keep it private for now. Please, Soonyoung.” His eyes flicker over to Mingyu, who continues to sport that disbelieving frown, oddly perceptive in ways his boyfriend isn’t. “Mingyu. Please.” 

More background noise, music blasting from the overhead speakers. Mingyu slowly sits his phone on his lap, obscured beneath the booth table. Soonyoung seems to be struggling with the idea of privacy, lips twitching with unsaid words. Then, “‘Course,” he says, “I’m happy you’re putting yourself first for once, hyung.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t feel so bad, because he didn’t _lie_. Albeit precarious, what he has with Chan is significant, if not one of the more important things happening in his life at the moment. They’re not just fuck buddies. Wonwoo isn’t messaging a fling to fuck and then leave in the morning. He’s going to go back to the dorms to Chan—pretty, pretty Lee Chan, the man he’s known for eight years, tended to for six—and share his bed with him, massage his neck and shoulders until he’s putty in his arms. And they’re going to wake up entangled in one another’s limbs, kiss their morning greetings, and return to their shared lives. 

Chan is somebody. 

He doesn’t say that to them. He says, “So, an old friend of mine recently came back into my life,” and Soonyoung and Mingyu are grateful for a new topic concerning Wonwoo’s personal life, jumping in with questions and excitement. 

“We were best friends,” Wonwoo tells them, “He works at _Asan_ as some sort of administrator. Smart guy.” 

“Like attracts like,” Soonyoung chirps. 

If that were true, Wonwoo would be by his side. They would’ve been business partners. Maybe he would’ve been married, too. “Eh,” Wonwoo says, “he was smarter.” He takes a careful sip of his soju, swishes it around, then finishes the rest of his glass. The alcohol gives a pleasant burn on its way down. “Anyway—it’s a nice distraction. He’s married to a nurse and has a little girl. . .” 

Tense muscle Wonwoo never realized he’s tightening unfurls once he steps into the dormitories later that night. It’s near one a.m., and prying himself away from two extroverts is always a test of determination; but nothing stands between Wonwoo and seclusion—nor can anything withstand the desire for who lies in his bed, blinking sleepy eyes at him while he stands by the bed frame and stares. 

“Good night out?” Chan asks, rubbing at his face and rolling onto his back. The sheets are bunched up around his waist, large sleepshirt splayed out. 

Wonwoo leans over and presses his mouth to Chan’s forehead, cheek, tip of his nose. Chan scrunches his face up, lies there and accepts it. “It was,” Wonwoo says, “until you ruined everything.” 

There’s a mixture of tired-confusion on Chan’s features, sharpening what was once soft with sleep. “Huh? Wh’did I do?” 

“You know what you did. I had to ask Mingyu and Soonyoung about their marriage plans to get my boner to go away.” 

Chan laughs, eyes disappearing when his cheeks round out. “Mm, sorry.” He doesn’t sound apologetic. 

Whatever. He’s too cute to be mad at. 

“Demon,” Wonwoo punctuates the insult with an insulting kiss right on Chan’s slack mouth; Chan leans into it, pressing another before Wonwoo can lean back up and create distance. 

Chan rolls onto his side. “Demon wants you to come to bed.” 

“As he wishes. Let me shower first.” 

A short, giddy bath and teeth-brush later, Wonwoo holds Chan to his chest and tugs the duvet up over them. “Still not asleep?” Wonwoo mutters into his hair, disrupting the little hairs. 

Chan shakes his head where it’s pressed to Wonwoo’s clavicles. “Mm-mm.” 

“Nervous?” 

“No,” Chan says, like Wonwoo knew he would, “stressed.” 

“About? Three-day filming? That’s exhausting, I know, but you’re a gre—” 

Chan tips his head back to blink slowly up at Wonwoo. He’s undeniably tired, and Wonwoo has to wonder how he’s holding onto consciousness so well. “I can be surveillanced for three days straight, that’s fine,” his words slur, “That’s not different from whatever I do now. I don’t, like. I ‘dunno.” 

Wonwoo waits for him to find his words, fingers seeking out knots to undo along his spine. 

“It’s not the same as when I’m alone. I have Seungkwan hyung to stress about, too.” 

“Getting along with him,” Wonwoo says. It’s not a question. 

“I can do that. But, I’ve never had to for, like, thirty hours straight. I feel tired thinking about it.” 

“Me, too,” Wonwoo says, “for you. But, we can work something out. Interact with him only when you have to, come hide with me in-between. I’m good at being invisible.” 

Chan snickers. Wonwoo can feel him tugging at the hem of his shirt, fingers occasionally brushing Wonwoo’s midriff when they dip in far enough. He strokes the hair out of Chan’s face. 

“What if I don’t want you to be invisible?” Chan asks, quiet. 

“Then I won’t be. Or,” Wonwoo starts, “we can be invisible together. Hide on the second floor. Wherever my room is. I ‘dunno.” 

A moment of quiet. Quiet, but loud with ideas being thought, Wonwoo wondering if he said something wrong, didn’t pick up on a cue that he was meant to.

Finally— “I wanna do something else in your room.” And before Wonwoo can process the implications of that statement, Chan’s phone materializes from under the pillow he was resting on. Wonwoo watches the fluorescent light create shadows on Chan’s face as Chan flicks through, bottom lip nudged between his teeth. Then, Chan flips the phone around to face Wonwoo. 

The first thing Wonwoo’s gaze falls on is the _Delivered at 9PM, front office_ sitting at the top of the screen in large font. He spends a few extra seconds contemplating that before he takes a courageous glance down, down, down at preview images. Rope, a blind fold, more rope. Next to each photo: _silky bondage rope, red, 30meters; silky bondage rope, pink, 15 meters; silk blindfold, crimson red_. 

He reads it again. Reads _delivered at 9PM, front office_. Reads _silky bondage rope_. Stares at the image of rolled-up rope. Reads _crimson red_. Front office. 9PM. Blindfold. Reads. 

Wonwoo hears a pathetic little squeak fill the room before his mind registers that it came from his own vocal cords. 

“You can tie me up how you want me. Do it tight so I can’t move and it’ll _really_ feel like you’re fo—” 

“Chan.” He grabs the phone from Chan and turns the screen off, tossing it over and onto the rug. It makes a dull thud. 

“Wait,” Chan yelps, affronted, “why did you do—” He snatches Chan’s arms and forces him to remain where he lies, letting him struggle futilely against his grasp. “What? You don’t want to? Tell me that instead of trying to break my phone screen!” 

“Listen.” 

“Let me get m—” 

“ _Listen_.” The authoritative tone freezes Chan mid-squirm. He blinks wide, confused eyes at Wonwoo. Wonwoo, who’s struggling to hold onto sanity, to stay grounded by tightening his fingers around Chan’s wrists. Everything is kinda spinning right now, and it can’t be from the soju he drank over an hour ago. He’s not even tipsy. 

He’s hard. Rock hard. They have to be up in under three hours and he’s going to suck Chan’s cock, then eat him out, then lap up his release like he’s drunk for it. 

“We’re not going to bed,” Wonwoo tells him. The firm tone to his voice hasn’t left—and Chan responds to it as he should, going limp and submissive in his hold. 

Chan’s manicured brows curve. His lips are parted, floundering. “No?” he breathes. 

Wonwoo lets go of him. “No. Take off my shirt.” 

  
  


⬳

****

**KALEIDOSCOPE ENTERTAINMENT TO BEGIN FILMING FOR MINI-SERIES ON JEJU ISLAND**

Read more… 

Sources say KALEIDOSCOPE Entertainment is set to release a mini-series in the new year, starring solo artists and best friends Boo Seungkwan and Lee Chan. Titled _Fun in Jeju Island_ , the two idols will show their charms and great chemistry while touring the island Seungkwan calls home. The release date is tentatively set for February and will be sure to warm Boosadans and Colours up alike! Boochan fans have been showing their excitement all over the internet. 

[+158 , -14] omg a whole show with the two of them!? This is going to be good!! Cant wait to watch seungkwan oppa show chan oppa around! 

[+82 , -2] filming where i live?? I hope i havent missed them yettt

[+422 , -96 ] i missed seeing them interact. They argue like a married couple kkkk 

⬳

It’s not warm on Jeju in November. Unfortunately. They had to start filming the minute a company van pulled up to the front of the dormitories with Seungkwan already sitting in the back, iced coffee in one hand, handheld camera in the other. Double unfortunately. 

Seoul International Airport isn’t far from Kaleidoscope’s headquarters. But packing takes a long time, as does coordinating with multiple staff and managers to make sure both Chan and Seungkwan are prepared, that the production team has the equipment and time they need to capture salvageable footage. It’s not going to be hot, but Wonwoo packs hats for Chan anyway, then uses his premade list of travel essentials to prep for the one-hour flight: travel-size lotions, creams, gum, mint, neck pillows, a sleep mask, snacks, etc. Sunscreen, caffeine pills, vapor rub, a first-aid. His favorite body wash, soft comforters, a stress ball, anything, everything. 

A fresh bottle of lubricant. Condoms, for quick clean-up. Wipes. Extra towels. 

He sits in the front row of the van with Seungkwan’s manager, Min Sunye. Wonwoo still finds himself a little awestruck whenever she acknowledges him, passing a sleepy bow and a nod; he’s never told her this—mostly for her own sake and to maintain _some_ semblance of friendship—but she was one of the many idols he grew up fantasizing about. Sometimes, Sunye was the hot English teacher that kissed him if he made above ninety percent on an exam; other times, she was a friend’s parent, and he’d sneak over when her husband wasn’t home to cook with her, eat her out nice and slow until she was shivering through a third orgasm and begging him to stop. 

Filthy, disgusting teenage boy hormones that carried him through to university. Sunye’s girl group ended up disbanding when he was in his third year of high school. And he never thought he’d see her again—the woman that haunted so many dreams, became the topic of numerous conversations when he and Minjun roleplayed. 

He can’t be blamed for holding onto remnants of that admiration. He bows back, giving a sleepy smile and returning her, “Good morning.” 

They know by now to be deathly quiet on the drive to the airport, while the two boys in the row behind them film and chat. Chan and Seungkwan had been given instruction on what to say, how to say it, to set the scene for the series; the professionals they are, they jump right into it. As if Chan isn’t running off of an hour of sleep. 

“I haven’t been on the island since last year,” Seungkwan is saying. There are cameras installed to each door, then one on the back of Wonwoo and Sunye’s seats, facing the idols. “My mom is begging for us to go visit her, but I told her we have to wait and see.” 

“We need to go see mom,” Chan whines, “she messaged me ‘I miss you’ last week. Look.” He tries to hand Seungkwan his phone, but Seungkwan shoots him a miffed look and playfully waves it off. 

“She doesn’t send _me_ ‘I miss you’ messages,” Seungkwan says, “Suddenly I’m too busy to visit.” 

Chan rolls his eyes at him with a smirk. “I’m officially adopted now, hyung. I signed the papers and everything. We’re brothers.” 

“We’ve always been brothers,” Seungkwan affirms. “Who else took care of you when you were _this_ tall and didn’t have a fandom name yet?” 

Polite laughter, more chat about their long history as trainees together, and then a segue into where they’re going, how far their resort is from Jeju’s airport. A rulebook followed bullet point by bullet point. Wonwoo, _exhausted_ and bored out of his fucking mind, watches Sunye dab on foundation with her compact mirror. Her hair is chopped short, curling under her chin, and glows a deep brown. He wonders, distantly, how she and Seungkwan get along, how close they’re able to be as a male idol with a manager of the opposite sex. 

Filming continues even as they pull up to departure and work on grabbing their belongings out of the vans. Cameramen follow them up to the front doors, and then no filming is allowed inside of the building. The morning is a tiring bustle of a flight, lugging around Chan’s carry-on bags, trying to stay quiet and invisible during vlogs—the same old shit. Wonwoo can do this part well, the silence, dodging cameras as well as he can to reduce the amount of blurring editors have to do. 

The flight to Jeju is only an hour long. It’s fourteen degrees celsius on the island; Wonwoo helps Chan tug on a black hoodie on the way to bag claim, muttering, “Cold out there,” before returning to his place next to Sunye. 

“Cute,” Sunye says. 

Wonwoo glances at her. “Huh?” He’s already feeling overwhelmed with the hoards of staff rushing to and fro around them, plus fans that are trying to follow along and see what’s happening. There’s a distant thought to pop his benzodiazepine, the prescription he has at the ready for stressful events like this—traveling—but he decides to hold off until it gets _really_ chaotic. AKA, getting settled into the resort. 

“You putting it on for him,” Sunye says, parroting the motion with two hands, tongue poking out between her teeth. “Cute.” 

He… isn’t sure how to respond to this. “Thanks,” is his delayed response, but that doesn’t sound right to his ears. Managers aren’t supposed to do that, huh. Another habit he needs to suppress while constantly surrounded by company. 

The moment for chatter is over as soon as it begins. They drive in rented vans to Seogwipo-si, and Chan and Seungkwan continue to narrate the experience for the cameras. Chan is going to need a caffeine pill once they arrive on the set. Wonwoo jots that down in his notes app. 

Another near-hour drive, and they’re pulling up to the villa. 

“Wow,” Chan gasps. He has his camera on its extendor, turned so it can see him. Blinking wide eyes out the window, he watches as they drive through the cobblestone enclosure and enter the property. “It’s beautiful!” 

“How many floors is this?” Seungkwan asks, knowing exactly how many floors there are. “It’s huge. Oh—a pool! We can lie out by the pool and nap!” He jabs an index finger against the glass. 

It’s not a lie; the location is gorgeous. Built on higher ground, it looks over greenery, homes and businesses interspersed. In the near distance is the sea, a white-sand beach crowded with people despite the colder weather. It’s a tall, modern building, built of glass, rosewood panels, concrete. Garlands grow up the outer walls, there are flower beds planted by every open door, hanging off some of the balconies; the front and back lawn is an expansive stretch of grass. From Wonwoo’s research, he remembers there being a veranda in the backyard, opening out to the grass, the pool. 

Their photographers are going to have a field day snapping behind the scenes pics of them. 

“I want a room on the top floor,” Chan says, feigning awe. As soon as the vans line up on the circular driveway, the boys are being helped out to gape and fawn over where they’ll be staying some more. Cameramen from the other cars follow them closely while they approach. 

Sunye sits and waits for them to enter the front door before she turns to Wonwoo. “I think we’re on the second floor,” she says, “there are stairs at the end of the hall if we need to get up to them discreetly.” 

Wonwoo nods, then pushes his door open. “Let’s help the others get their things.” 

It’s impossible to miss the hundreds of cameras planted in every conceivable corner, crevice, nook, and cranny of the estate. While they’ll be on at all times—and can be manually turned off, if need be—Wonwoo knows most of the footage won’t be used. Especially during this lapse, where Seungkwan and Chan are done running around the building with their own cameras to explore with one another, shrieking about the amenities, their large beds, their rooms that are right across the hall from each other. Staff find random closets to hide their equipment inside of, the large common room being used as the temporary holding space for everyone else’s luggage. 

They let Chan and Seungkwan carry their own bags up to their rooms, for the sake of realism. Playing the role as two kids that definitely don’t have their managers at their beck and call. The concept calls for as little interaction with outsiders as possible; once the final product is produced and uploaded, it’s going to be a true question as to whether there were three staff members with them—or the true near-thirty. 

Sooyeon is leaning against the kitchen island, muttering to her assistants, when Wonwoo finds Chan chugging water from the fridge. The kitchen is large enough to carry multiple people with ease, so Wonwoo’s journey to his side is quick and painless; he picks up Chan’s free hand and plops two caffeine pills in his palm. “300mg,” he tells him. Seungkwan is on the other side, near the pantry, speaking to Sunye and laughing. 

“Thanks, Wonwoo hyung,” Chan gives him a soft smile, popping the pills into his mouth and swallowing it down with the rest of his water. “Hope this carries me until tonight.” 

“I have more if it doesn’t,” Wonwoo says. He takes the empty cup from Chan and sets it in the sink. “Horseback riding is today, isn’t it?” 

Seems like Chan is thinking about the same thing, because he gives Wonwoo a placating bicep squeeze. “I’m not bruised that bad. You didn’t slap _hard_ —” 

Wonwoo takes a quick glance over at Sunye and Seungkwan. They’re absorbed in a conversation of their own, and there’s voices hanging in-between them, but he can never be too sure. “Well, I’ll bring some icy-hot patches just in case. Sorry. I really need to think ahead.” Sometimes it’s easy to lose himself in the scene, in watching Chan’s ass ripple with every impact. 

“It’s a nice reminder,” Chan whispers. His fingers ghost down Wonwoo’s arm, towards his elbow, then he removes himself from Wonwoo entirely and steps away. “Back to filming. Sooyeon-nim wants us to cook breakfast together, so shoo, shoo,” he ushers Wonwoo over to where Sunye is now standing alone, at the threshold to the common room and the kitchen. 

The whiplash Wonwoo is experiencing has his brain struggling to hear Sunye speaking to him, mind only preoccupied with Chan meeting Seungkwan and Sooyeon at the island. Her assistants meander nearby with their cameras strapped to their wrists. “Hmm?” he hums, forcing his gaze over to her. 

She regards him carefully, brows furrowed, then says, “We have an hour or two to relax while they film, so let’s go unpack, okay? Maybe we have time to go get something to eat, too.” 

Right. He hadn’t eaten yet. At the reminder of needing food, his stomach gurgles softly. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing, “let’s go.” 

His room is nice. It’s decently large, with a picture window to the left looking out over Seogwipo-si, the beach in the distance. His curtains are yellow and sheer, a match to the drapes hanging over his queen-sized mattress. The theme is rosewood floor paneling, soft golds, a touch of rose gold in the light fixtures. Wonwoo tests out the door, listening to how loud the hinges creak when he swings it open and closed. 

Quiet. Good. 

Wonwoo never brings much when on trips, so unpacking his bathroom tools is the majority of unpacking he does. His suitcase and carry-on bag are left against the window, in a corner. He’s rolling down the sheets already on the bed and replacing it with his own when there’s a soft knock on the door, and then Sunye’s soothing voice saying, “Wonwoo-ssi?” 

“Yes?” Wonwoo smooths out his comforter, then turns to find her poking her pretty face in, blinking wide eyes at him. 

“There’s a breakfast shop right down the street,” she says. “We can walk there and be back before our next schedule. Wanna go?” 

Only a fucking idiot wouldn’t want to. “Sure,” Wonwoo says. “Let me find my wallet.” 

  
  


Despite the copious amounts of setting powder, setting spray, and priming cream, Chan danced so hard his makeup smudged. The day had been so busy, Jihye didn’t get the chance to wipe it off; Chan had gone from pre-recording to pre-recording to dance practice to the dorms, the only food he’d been able to eat the protein bars Wonwoo packed for him. 

It showed. He sat on the lip of Wonwoo’s tub, body swaying like seaweed, as Wonwoo crouched in front of him, held his chin in one hand, and used a makeup wipe to rub the liptint off with the other. 

The dormitory was quiet. Wonwoo’s bedroom was dark, but his bathroom light was on, and the only sounds that sat in the air were their breathing, the material of Wonwoo’s wipe scrubbing at Chan’s skin. “They really laid it on today, huh,” Wonwoo muttered softly, mostly to himself since Chan appeared to be half-asleep. 

Chan was eighteen. Eighteen, probably the busiest he’d ever been, and had a day of being barked at—first by Jinho for not moving fast enough, then his choreographer for rushing some steps, and then, finally, on the phone on the car ride back home by his father. The further schedules progressed, the quieter Chan had become, until he was barely sentient in the stylist chair, Jihye sprucing up his pastel-pink hair, Jihye’s assistant reapplying eyeliner, mascara. 

Still, Chan looked ethereal. The pink was fading into a soft color. His mouth was a dark red, eyes haloed with rosy shadow, eyeliner a complimentary, chestnut brown that lit his irides up into honey. He accepted every criticism graciously, spent a quiet moment tugging at his fringe and pacing, and then went on each stage and beamed so bright the sun dipped down behind the horizon. Chan at eighteen years old. 

You worked so hard today,” Wonwoo continued, keeping his voice as soothing as he could. Maybe, if Chan was actually falling into slumber, he’d hear it in his dreams, a gentle wave that washed over him. Warm water nipping at his feet. “Proud of you. Let’s rest now.” 

Chan made a soft noise in his throat. Wonwoo got the rest of the liptint off, but his mouth was still stained red; that wouldn’t be getting off until a face-wash or two. 

“Anytime you want,” Wonwoo continued, “you can stop.” He abandoned the soiled wipe and tugged out a new one, brushing over Chan’s cheeks to wipe the blush away. “Move on. You know that, right?” 

Nothing. Chan leaned into Wonwoo’s touch, involuntarily chasing the warmth of his fingertips through the cloth. 

Wonwoo pretended not to see his limping. He’d pretended to not see Chan’s anxious fingers ripping hair out at the nape on his neck, chasing anything to tug on, twist at. He’d pretended to not hear the tinny voice of his father through Chan’s phone, the _you’re slacking. You’re getting too complacent now that you’re charting at #1 every comeback. What good are you as a performer if you get lazy after success?_ as Chan answered automatic, “You’re right. I know. I’m going to the studio right now, I’ll work on that spin. Yeah.” 

Pretended, pretended, not knowing how far he could go with concern. If he would be crossing Chan’s boundaries or the parameters of his contract by telling him his dad was worthless and Chan was the sun, a bright constant in thousands of people’s lives. In Wonwoo’s life. It was a mistake, growing attached. Chan didn’t see him as anything other than a glorified personal assistant, twisting his face away from him after getting off the phone so Wonwoo wouldn’t see how red his face was getting, how his eyes got wet. The final straw of a miserable fucking workday. 

“If you’re tired, it’s okay,” Wonwoo whispered to his fluttering lashes. “Contract renewal is in another year. Whatever you decide, it’s the correct choice.” 

Chan tittered, but it was a tired, slurred sound. His eyes were unfocused as he opened them. “I’m not quitting, hyung.” 

“It’s not quitting,” Wonwoo insisted. “You’ve been doing this all your life. It’s your right to—” 

“I’m _not_ quitting, hyung.” Now, his eyes focused. “Break my legs and arms if you want me to stop.” 

Wonwoo hesitated over Chan’s eyebrows. “I don’t want you to stop,” he said, knowing it was a lie the second it slipped from his lips. “This is about you. I don’t want you to feel obligated to do this.” 

“I want to do this. I’m obligated to do this, too.” Chan was waking up, piecemeal, and stopped swaying. Leaning his upper body weight on his right arm, he told Wonwoo, “Colours don’t want me to quit. I perform for myself and for them; I’m not that selfish to give up on them.” 

_You’re giving up on yourself._ “You’re limping,” Wonwoo blurted. And there was that hazy, nauseating feeling again, four walls closing in on him, a Chan-shaped weight sitting on his chest. He looked into Chan’s red-rimmed eyes and saw that soul, a grown man in the vessel of a teenager. That determined glint thirteen year-old Lee Chan gave a wimpy, terrified Wonwoo. Wonwoo was overwhelmed with the presence of his own soul—but he seldom found Chan’s. 

Chan tittered again, sounding more awake than the last. “This isn’t the first time you’ve seen me limping, Wonwoo hyung.” 

His fingers were trembling. He continued to wipe the eyebrow pencil from Chan’s face, and he was convinced Chan could feel it. “I know. I’m just… it’s bad today. Did you pull something? Why didn’t you tell anyb—” 

“But, this is the first time you’ve told me to quit.”

Wonwoo froze again. His gaze shifted from where his hand trembled to Chan’s eyes. “I didn’t say _quit_. I said it wo—” 

“Did you know that nobody’s told me to stop before?” Chan asked. “I never got the choice.” 

They stared at one another. Suddenly, the silence was too much, too deafening. 

“I don’t think I ever gave myself the choice.” 

Wonwoo’s arm slowly lowered. It continued to fall until he sat it on Chan’s leg, on top of the material of his jeans. Quietly, “You know you have it. Right? You can stop whenever you want?” 

Chan nodded, a tiny little twitch. “I know.” He rested his hand on top of Wonwoo’s, removing the wipe to replace it with his fingers. Wonwoo refused to break eye contact, even as the feeling of skin on skin burned straight through the muscle and to his bones. “I don’t want to.” 

That was the final night—before Chan turned twenty—that Chan ended up in Wonwoo’s bed. Still, Wonwoo wasn’t sure if Chan understood that it was _Wonwoo_ he was seeking warmth from, nor if that was what Chan wanted: Wonwoo, specifically, and he wasn’t just chasing any semblance of a father-figure. Whatever the reason may be, Wonwoo assumed his role and held Chan tight, pretending, pretending. 

Pretending to be what Chan wanted. Pretending to not feel terrified at the prospect of being the man to comfort others when he could barely comfort himself. Pretended that he couldn’t feel Chan’s tears dampen his sleepshirt. Pretended that the way Chan shivered in his embrace was because he was cold. 

He’d never stop pretending that this wasn’t an illusion. The beginning of trust. 

  
  


The sun falls at 6:30 p.m. in November. Chan tries not to appear as horrified as he feels riding horses in east Jeju. They eat at a seafood restaurant near the beach, Seungkwan explaining where he used to go as a kid and how he used to dig up crabs for fun. They cook dinner together in the kitchen, both doing a horrible job and giggling like schoolboys, making even the staff smile warmly at their chemistry. They spend the evening out on the veranda, sipping water and having a heart-to-heart. Found family, brothers, fate that they met and were raised in the same company, all of that shit fans eat up. Wonwoo already knows this is going to be an absolute hit. 

“I never get to see Chan in action,” Sunye whispers to Wonwoo where they sit, off to the side and out of view from cameras. They’ve got their loveseats pushed to the corner of the veranda, wrapped up in blankets and hoodies as the temperature drops with the sun. “He’s such a natural. Better than I was at his age.” 

Wonwoo rips his eyes off Chan looking cute drowning in a hoodie two sizes too big, tiny fingers poking out from the sleeves, to regard Sunye. She’s got her hair piled up in a tiny ponytail on top of her head. “Not true,” he says, before he can stop himself, “you were one of the most popular members in Wonder Girls.”

Sunye laughs softly. “Doesn’t mean I was good at being on camera. Trying to be cool and natural. Y’know? Recent idols grew up with the internet and being filmed, so I think that’s why.” She shrugs. “I could sing and dance, kinda, but it was different when you have to talk to a camera and not look like you’re talking to a camera. Am I making sense?” 

"You are,” Wonwoo says. “I don’t get it... but I can sympathize. I’m so awkward. Can’t imagine how that picks up on film.” He doesn’t remember Sunye ever coming off odd during variety shows—though he was a horny kid at the time that got distracted with every sliver of skin she showed, so he’s not the best judge. 

She’s right. Chan is incredibly charismatic, ignoring the five cameras that are breathing down his neck to giggle and nod as Seungkwan recalls their interactions. He’s gorgeous even with his face makeup-free, hair wind-swept, glasses sliding down his nose. A born idol. Warmth burns where Wonwoo’s heart sits, displacing out into his limbs, his head. 

At eight p.m., Wonwoo is freshly showered and sitting out on the balcony attached to his bedroom. Seogwipo isn’t a sea of lights like Seoul is at night—but it is warmly lit by the moon, by the way the sea glimmers in oscillating diamonds. He sips on some peppermint tea in a mug he brought with him, legs up on his chair, blanket draping off his shoulders, and finally— _finally_ —reads his KaTalk messages. 

**Park Minjun**

I’m not trying to tell you what to do with your life. PLEASE don’t take this wrong. I miss you like hell and I’ve been thinking about you constantly since we stopped talking. We both have a hard time with our mental health so I know this can’t be good or healthy for you. 

I want to help. Always. You’ve helped me so much in my life and you know exactly what I mean. Call me, message me, anything you need I’m here for you, Wonu. 

I want to talk to you. Call anytime. Love you, man. [xx/xx] 

Something feels off-kilter. Not in the usual, peculiar way being in a new environment often feels. Wonwoo’s chest has an emptiness that isn’t dissimilar from hunger. That vacant, churning gnaw that eats at you until you fill it. He should definitely message Minjun asking if he’s available before he taps ‘call’ and raises it to his ear. He should definitely ask if it’s the right time of night to be calling a married man with a career and a kid. He should definitely not open the conversation by saying, “I think I got accustomed to being miserable,” instead of _how are you?_ Or, _this is Wonwoo_. Or, _I miss you and love you, too._

He doesn't do any of that. Instead, he lets his impulses carry him through every action, and Minjun lets him do it, jumping right into things like this is what they always do, his nasally voice responding, “I know. This is what you do.” 

The sea gleams like obsidian. Wonwoo’s tears twist it into black, yellow-white cotton balls. “I don’t know how to change. I think about quitting and the idea _alone_ causes a panic attack.” 

“You got attached.” The clipped sounds of a television dips in and out on the line. “It’s safer to suffer through the known than to venture out to the unknown. Your brain doesn’t recognize that it’s worth it.” 

" _Will_ it?”

“It takes time, Wonwoo. A lot of time. People expect you to have your shit figured out by twenty-five. Shit, _twenty-two_ sometimes. You’re in your thirties now, but you’re still Jeon Wonwoo. Still that little boy.” 

He suppresses a sob. Wipes at his dry face. Squirms and struggles to breathe. “You have, though.” 

Minjun laughs, bittersweet. “Nah,” he says, “I sure as fuck haven’t. Having a family is the ultimate illusion into people thinkin’ you got your shit together. I’m the same ‘ol loser I was in high school. We both are.” 

They both laugh quietly. Wind howls through trees, over the hill and past the property. “Ultimate illusion,” he parrots. 

“I can’t say getting out of that fucked job will suddenly make things perfect,” Minjun continues, “but I _can_ tell you that it will make things better. It’ll give you time to do the things you wanna do. Reading, games, Youtube.” 

Wonwoo sniffles. 

“Hey, um,” there’s a pause where Minjun shifts, and the muted sounds of a television disappears into silence, “I actually know about a few open positions at _Asan_. Presumptive of me, but, uh—I know they’d love to bring you in for a quick interview. Nothing major. The recruiters and I are good friends.” 

There isn’t an immediate response from Wonwoo other than a confused murmur, so Minjun persists. “Think about it. You don’t need to decide today, or next week, or next month. I’ll send you the details and you can figure it out on your own time. Alright?” 

A new job. A stable worklife. Separation of leisure and business. It… doesn’t sound real. Wonwoo can’t conceptualize it—clocking out of work and being able to go home. A home _not_ attached to what he does. “Oh,” is all he can manage. 

“But, I highly, highly encourage it. Put yourself first. I want the best for you; you’re my only best friend.” 

_Shit_. Shit, shit. Wonwoo inhales slowly through his nose, lets it out through his mouth. “Okay. Thanks. You’re—yeah.” 

Brief silence. Wonwoo can hear his own bedroom door do a quick, soft creak from out on the balcony. 

“I have to go,” Wonwoo says. 

“Of course,” Minjun answers. “Call anytime. I’m here.” 

He’s there. Wonwoo cannot translate nor convey the way that nips at him, warm seawater eating at his toes. “Bye,” he says. 

He hangs up. 

There’s a presence that hangs over his shoulder, a shadow blanketing his body.

“Hyung?” 

Wonwoo clicks off his phone screen and sets it on his armchair. When he turns around, he comes face-to-face with a freshly-washed Lee Chan standing at the threshold, one arm holding onto the sliding, balcony door. “I want you to fuck me.” 

Chan’s mouth hangs open. “Hyung?” he repeats. 

Wonwoo stands up from the chair slowly. The blanket falls off of his shoulders and crumples where he once sat. “I want you to fuck me. You’ve never fucked anyone before. I want that first, too.” 

Chan shakes his head in confirmation, still staring at Wonwoo awestruck. His cheeks and ears are pink from a hot shower, sleepshirt clearly belonging to Wonwoo the way it drapes down over his legs—but the fans won’t know that. Wonwoo will, though, when he watches it. 

He’ll know. 

Wonwoo wants it on his back so he can watch Chan. He fishes out the lubricant, considers the condom before deciding that he wants Chan’s first to be raw, wants to feel Chan’s come leak out of him. He’s got Chan’s collar buckled to his throat, and he fingers the D-ring while Chan sits between his spread legs and sinks two fingers in and out of him. “There you go,” Wonwoo sighs, head tipped on his pillow, enjoying the burning stretch. 

Chan’s fingers aren’t thick or long, but Wonwoo hasn’t been fingered in a little while; he murmurs encouragement as Chan concentrates on scissoring him open, crooking his fingers on Wonwoo’s instruction. He hits Wonwoo’s prostate pretty quickly, and Wonwoo bucks, gasps, “There, there, there,” while Chan applies pressure. “Good boy, Channie. Yeah.” 

Wonwoo wants Chan naked. He wants to be naked, too. So, he tells Chan to take the rest of his pajamas off, and then he has Chan sit and watch obediently as he strips, too. They lie chest to chest, Wonwoo keeping his thighs as wide as he can get them, and mutters, “Slow,” in Chan’s ear while Chan breaches his lubed hole carefully. 

“Tight,” Chan huffs. His breath is hot and overwhelming against Wonwoo’s jaw, throat. “You’re—so tight, hyung.” 

“Ssaem,” Wonwoo corrects, threading his fingers through Chan’s shower-damp hair, “I’m ssaem right now. Teaching you how to fuck me. Harder. Thuh—there y’go, put that dancer’s body to good use.” 

Chan shivers. He leans up to hold Wonwoo under his thighs, glancing down at where he has Wonwoo pierced on his cock. Wonwoo gives himself lazy strokes down his length, trying to get his half-flaccid dick to full hardness. It’s a slow, painful slide even with the excessive amount of lube squelching out around Chan’s cock; Wonwoo’s so turned on, though, enthralled by this view of Chan. Ring of his collar swinging, bare body glowing under the onslaught of moonlight pouring over them. His brows are furrowed in concentration, lips parted, as he pushes his hips forward. 

ight. Chan’s girth is fatter than it is long, and so while it reaches Wonwoo’s prostate easily, nudging it and shooting little zaps of warmth and electricity up his spine and to the base of his skull, there’s also a pervasive underlay of pain. Wonwoo reaches out and around to grip Chan’s asscheeks, urging him faster, harder. Chan, panting lightly, obeys without having to be told, and with another extra slide he bottoms out. 

They both groan. Wonwoo rubs circles into Chan’s hips with both thumbs. “How does it feel? Your first man? Hm?” He runs them up to Chan’s nipples and gives them a little nudge, a flick. Chan jolts, sighs. 

“Hot,” Chan murmurs. Enthralled, he roams his palms over Wonwoo’s thighs, up over his abs, then down again. He can’t tear his eyes off where he’s fucking into Wonwoo, minute thrusts that don’t go anywhere—but it’s keeping pressure on where Wonwoo likes it best, and he moans low in his chest, lifting his hips and lowering it in time with Chan’s movements. “Re-eally hot ‘nd tight. Ssaem.” 

“C’mon. Fuck me. Show ssaem what you can do. Make him come.” 

Chan is great at everything he does. This is no different. He’s fluid in his strokes, body oscillating, a ripple over seawater. He’s steady and slow with every thrust, gasping tiny _ah_ - _ah_ ’s as he fucks Wonwoo open, eyes flickering from his own cock, to Wonwoo stroking himself, to Wonwoo’s glazed eyes and wet mouth, and over again. 

They’re trying to be as quiet. Chan tries not to shake the bed or make it creak too loudly, they both try not to moan loudly enough to attract attention from Sunye or the other staff on each side of Wonwoo’s room. When Chan becomes more frantic, chasing his orgasm, Wonwoo fingers the ring with his index and middle and forces Chan’s head down to kiss him. It’s a hungry kiss, Wonwoo doing most of the work since Chan’s tongue has gone loose from pleasure; he holds Chan right there by the collar and fists his own cock at a rapid pace, one that matches the roll of Chan’s pelvis against his asscheeks. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Wonwoo groans against Chan’s lips. “Fuck me, faster, _shit_.” 

“Gonna come,” Chan whines. “Please—” 

Wonwoo forces his fingers under the back of Chan’s collar and _tugs_. It forces Chan’s trachea shut, and he gasps for air, lashes fluttering. “You gonna let me come after? Huh? If I let you come? Baby?” He won’t let up, so Chan nods silently, as best he can, hips stuttering. “Okay. Then come for me. Come in your first man.” 

Wonwoo lets go. 

It doesn’t take many more thrusts for Chan to fuck in to the hilt, his roughest one yet, and come with a full-body shiver. “ _Ah_ —!” Wonwoo shoves four fingers right into Chan’s mouth, sliding it over his tongue and to the back of his throat, obliterating the loud whimper that almost alerts the entire fucking hallway. 

He doesn’t give him the opportunity to come down from it. “My turn,” Wonwoo gasps, then shoves at Chan until his softening cock slips out. Chan yelps like a dog had its tail stepped on when Wonwoo grabs a chunk of hair at the crown of his head and forces him down, down, down to his cock. “Open your fucking mouth.” He sits up, other hand holding Chan’s jaw down with the four fingers pressed to his tongue. 

Chan looks dazed. He’s blinking wet eyes up at Wonwoo, cheeks flushed, forehead shining. But he does open his mouth as wide as it can go, legs curled up underneath himself. 

“Suck my dick,” Wonwoo says. He tugs his hand out of Chan’s mouth and gets it around his erection at the base, guiding his cockhead to Chan’s lips. “C’mon. _Now_.” 

“Okay,” Chan gasps. “Okay, okay—” 

“ _Okay_?” Wonwoo asks, aghast. “We leave Seoul and you lose your manners? I let you come in me, Chan. It’s not ‘okay’.” Then, before Chan’s fuzzy head can conjure a response to that—an apology, is what Wonwoo seeks—Wonwoo gathers the spit in his mouth and _spits_. It hits Chan’s lips, but mostly makes it into his mouth; Chan flinches, eyes shutting on reflex, and _moans_. 

“You like when I spit on you? What a dirty whore,” Wonwoo tightens his grip in Chan’s hair, shakes his head side to side until Chan groans from the pain. “Apologize. Chan.” 

“Sorry. I’m sorry, ssaem, I didn—” 

Wonwoo forces Chan’s head down onto his cock. Slips it right inside and immediately lifts his hips up off the mattress to fuck into his mouth, spit-covered hand behind him as leverage. Chan gags, _hard_ , and his body tries to jerk away, but Wonwoo just forces him down further. He doesn't let up, doesn’t allow Chan to reprieve; if he wants to be forced, Wonwoo will force him. He’ll fuck his mouth like he’s some jump-off, some whore that he paid. 

“Don’t be sloppy; I know you’ve done this before,” Wonwoo grits out. The sounds of Chan’s throat muscles being breached is obscene, as is the phlegm and spit that slides down his length, gathers on his balls. “You suck Seungkwan’s cock before? Huh?”

This is a question that isn’t rhetorical. Wonwoo drags Chan’s head back up off of him, and watches as Chan gasps hard for breath, feels that heat turn to a forest fire at the sight of tears slipping down his cheeks. “Tell me. You suck his cock?” 

Chan pants, once, twice, chest heaving, and then exhales, “Yes, ssaem, I—I sucked his cock.” 

“Seokmin’s?” 

Another gasp. “Yes, ssaem.” 

“Then you should be doing a better job than this. You said you’d make me come. C’mon.” Wonwoo doesn’t let him respond—not anymore. He’s heard enough, just wants Chan’s warm mouth back on him; so he forces his dick back into Chan’s mouth and pumps in and out, watching his lips stretch thin around his girth, how he occasionally jerks and squirms, arms scrambling for purchase by his hips to keep himself up. 

Wonwoo takes what he wants, leaves nothing left. He leans on the headboard, forces Chan up between his legs again by the collar, and holds his head with both hands to guide it up and down in quick, desperate bobs. He tips his head back and moans, sighs, trying not to be too loud even if he’s sure no one is in the room on the other side of the wall. 

The ceiling is off-white. It blurs and darkens with Wonwoo’s arousal. The splay of moonlight has it glimmer, an illusion of the sea to Jeju’s north, to its south. Wonwoo wants it to dip down, swallow him whole. With a short cry and a full-body shiver, he has Chan take him almost all of the way down and into his throat, comes, marking his territory. Chan’s release leaking out of him, his own release pouring down Chan’s esophagus; swapping pieces of one another that won’t remain— 

the ultimate illusion. 

  
  


**Jeon Wonwoo**

I want to. I really, really do. But, I don’t know if I can.

Chan. I care about him a lot. I don’t want to leave him. 

I know this sounds stupid. To you, it probably does and it probably is. Idk. But, Chan and I got very close over the years. I hate my job, but I like working for him. He cares about me and I about him. [5:23 a.m.]

**Park Minjun**

Hey, I get it. I may not understand, but I can sympathize with growing attached to someone you’ve taken care of for most of your own adult life. 

But

You can’t stay miserable for one person, Wonwoo. That’s not fair to you. 

And if he really cares about you, he wouldn’t want you to, either. [5:30 a.m.] 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

I know. 

Sorry.

Thanks for listening. [5:32 a.m.] 

**Park Minjun**

Anytime. If you want to meet and talk over lunch or dinner at any time, I’m here. 

Just call or message me. 

Take care of yourself. [5:35 a.m.]

  
  
  



	6. cut a piece of myself for your life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wonwoo’s affection for Chan is the greatest weight he bears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **cw** : suicide ideation, age difference kink, con non-con, shibari, slut-shaming, brief feminization, there is a sex scene in which they sexualize wonwoo being much older than chan; also references to him being old, too, but youre not old in your thirties. nowhere near. please be warned!) 
> 
> At night, just barely  
> two boats slide in,  
> lowering their anchors at the port;  
> two naked boats  
> lie side by side  
> touching each other’s wounds  
> We are safe—we are fortunate, oh  
> to see the ocean calming down
> 
> — _Rising Tide_ , Jung Kutbyol

Wonwoo thinks of that pervasive stage, standing alone, never letting your guard down. The performance never ending. How exhausting that must be—dehumanizing, too, to be seen as a product, a public figure, a mannequin carved out and stuffed with thousands of different expectations. 

Overtime, Wonwoo’s daydreams morph. He thinks of tying Chan to a chair, holding his nape and fucking his face until he cries; other nights—nights that become more and more frequent, debilitating, almost—he imagines Chan refusing to renew his contract. He imagines Chan cutting off his father, his mother, moving on to another company where he can dance for a living, but as a background character. On his own terms, out of direct spotlight. And—Wonwoo. He imagines himself with a better job, a looser one. Being able to pick up Chan from the dance studio and drive to their shared apartment. Cooking dinner, cuddled up on their couch reading books together, making love before bed. 

What Chan’s face would look like if Wonwoo slipped a ring onto his left finger one night at a restaurant overlooking Seoul, a private reservation. What he’d say, if he’d cry. Wonwoo knows _he’d_ be crying. _I can’t see myself marrying anybody else_ , Wonwoo would tell him. _You’re my everything_. If it were legal, he’d marry him the very next morning. Why wait? 

Arousal from sleep brings that rib-rattling ache. He goes home to play happy family with his parents, responds to their messages every once in a while to let them know he’s alive, and a new realization seeps through. It’s like a mirage—the closer he drives towards it, the further it appears. What once glittered like a pond melts into asphalt. Chan doesn’t step off of that pervasive stage, and Wonwoo doesn’t, either. He molds new layers to his shell when his mother looks him in the eyes and asks, _when are we getting grandkids?_

He fortifies the shell with concrete when his brother tosses a lazy arm around him and says, _isn’t it cool how we’re both in the entertainment industry? Different roles, but still_ . He lets it dry on his skin, no longer able to be peeled off, when his grandparents look at him with knife-sharp disappointment. The stab he’s given between his ribs, deflating his lungs into pathetic heaps of balloon scrap. _When I was your age,_ his grandmother told him once _, your mother was already_ nine _years old_. 

_If your objective is to make me kill myself, it’s working_. Aloud, Wonwoo said, “Wow.” 

Taking an entire bottle of benzodiazepine tablets will allow him refuge. Hurdle him into respiratory arrest as the world fizzles out. 

Chan sucking his dick at three in the morning provides similar results. 

Wonwoo sighs, carding his fingers through Chan’s soft, soft hair, as Chan works his shaft. He’s lying on his back with his comforter pulled down to where Chan is curled between his legs, one hand holding the base of Wonwoo’s cock while he suckles at the head, tongues his slit and has Wonwoo’s breath stutter. “Sweet, sweet boy,” Wonwoo exhales, not guiding Chan at all. Just taking it, scritching at his scalp, massaging his nape. “Wish you could see yourself. Tiny mouth taking me so well.” 

Chan moans around his girth, and Wonwoo feels the vibrations rattle his skull, his ribcage, awakening that monster that lies beneath. Chan really is perfect like this, pink mouth stretched thin around him, making a show of bobbing his head, working the shaft with fingers that can barely make it around him. It’s wet—Chan’s chin, the spittle that bubbles at his lip corners, the sheen to Wonwoo’s dick as Chan pulls off and then sinks back down—and the soft sounds of sucking, of Chan’s throat muscles being spread, breached, lights a match in Wonwoo’s gut. It burns, ripples out, slows his breathing. Slower, slower, sputtering, like he’d actually taken that bottle of fifty tabs and he’s finally drifting off. 

The best way to go. 

Chan is a born performer. He drags his tongue from the thatch of pubic hair up to Wonwoo’s frenulum, applying pressure there until Wonwoo gasps, latches onto Chan’s little nape hairs, and then circles the crown before starting over. Long, languid licks with the flat on his tongue, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy as he watches Wonwoo watch him. Wonwoo’s feeling a little extra sick today—something about three a.m. and the surrealism of getting his dick sucked by Lee Chan on Jeju Island—and he wants to push boundaries, test out Chan’s comfortability. He won’t do it by fucking Chan’s face (he did enough damage last night, and Chan needs his voice to film), but there are other ways to demean. To humiliate. To own. 

So, carding Chan’s fringe back for a better view of those dark eyes, pale fires lit in each iris by the moon, Wonwoo whispers, “What would your appa think? Using your talent to put on a show by sucking your hyung’s dick. Think he’d be proud?” 

Chan slows to a stop at Wonwoo’s flared head, panting heavily against Wonwoo’s sensitive skin. He keeps his tongue against him and _moans_ , eyes closing for a moment before they part again and find Wonwoo’s searching gaze. “No,” Chan says, voice distorted because of his tongue hanging out, “he’d—” and he doesn’t finish that thought. 

Wonwoo doesn’t force him. He lets Chan swallow him down, cheeks hollowing, sucking and groaning as he does so. 

“His son’s a little slut,” Wonwoo mutters, “isn’t he? He has no fucking idea who his Channie really is.” 

Chan doesn’t falter this time, only lets out an unabashed moan, body shivering like a draft ran over his feverish skin. 

“Does anyone know? That you want to be tied up? _Forced_? You want your hyung to fuck you while you beg him to stop? Hm?” 

And it’s what Wonwoo wants. What nobody else knows. No one except Minjun—and even then, there are darker pieces to Wonwoo’s psyche that he cradles delicately to his chest. They’re both holding secrets, reinforcing their shells. A stage for two. 

Wonwoo comes embarrassingly fast. “Don’t spill a single drop,” he bites out, holding Chan with two hands cupping his jaw as Chan swallows, Adam’s apple visibly bobbing. “Fuck, yeah, there you go. Sweet boy.” 

He pulls Chan up after he’s through and licks remnants from his mouth. He fists Chan’s leaking cock while he kisses him, deep and sensual, trying to stake claim of everything. His moans, every breath, the tremor in his thighs and lower belly as he spills over Wonwoo’s hand and clings to the sleeves of his tee. He doesn’t stop kissing him when he reaches out to grab some wet wipes and cleans his hand with them. He doesn’t stop kissing him as he pushes Chan to his back and leans halfway over him, sucking at his bottom lip, shoving his tongue between his teeth. 

Wonwoo doesn’t want to stop. But he does, and they lie with their limbs entangled. And Wonwoo imagines that this is their bed, in their home, and Chan has a band on his left ring finger. 

“I’ve been chatting with an old friend.” Wonwoo’s voice is muffled in the crown of Chan’s head. They assume their usual position, curled into one another, the comforter up to their respective chins. Chan’s arm is tossed over Wonwoo’s middle while Wonwoo has one tucked under, massaging absently at Chan’s back. Always, always finding those knots. “Well—old best friend. From high school.” 

“You had friends in high school?” 

Wonwoo jabs his fingers into Chan’s ribs until he struggles and begs for mercy. “Sorry—please!” 

“I know it’s hard to believe, but yes,” Wonwoo laughs once they settle back down. “Losers have to stick together. He and I had a lot of similarities, so it was easy. Fell outta contact with him for a few years after we graduated.” 

Chan hums his acknowledgment, cuddling back into his chest. “Missed him?” 

“A lot. It was awkward initially since we had to go through that small-talk phase, but he’s doing great; has a wife, a kid, works at a hospital in administration. He’s a good guy.” 

Another hum. Chan sounds half-asleep, breathing a little heavier every time Wonwoo works over his shoulders. “That was him I was on the phone with earlier. I… we were both in the closet. Awkward, bisexual kids with no one to really talk about that with but each other.” 

There’s a stretch of comfortable silence. The villa is quiet, and every few minutes the muted sound of leaves rustling fills the air. 

“When did you find out?” Chan asks. His voice is slurred in sleep. “That you liked guys?” 

Wonwoo exhales a little laugh. Focusing on the speckled roof, he licks his lips, says, “I knew in junior high. I had a crush on a classmate and knew it was a crush pretty quickly. But, uh. It took me until highschool and Minjun—that’s my friend’s name—to accept it.” 

Chan nuzzles further onto Wonwoo’s chest. “You ever dated Minjun hyung?”

“No,” Wonwoo answers immediately, an incredulous laugh jostling Chan, “absolutely not. I never thought of him that way. We just got along well. Liked PC games, kpop, manhwas. Loser stuff.” 

“Loser stuff,” Chan giggles. “You said it, not me.” 

“I’ve never denied it.”

More silence. Wonwoo considers, distantly, telling Chan about the contents of their conversation. How Chan would react, if he’d respond to the possibility of Wonwoo resigning the way Minjun said he should—if he cares about him. Wonwoo wonders if he even cares about himself enough to go through with it. Minjun had held up to his promise and messaged Wonwoo the contact information of several different recruiters, and then the online applications. _They already know about you, so as soon as you send it in they’ll be in touch to set up interview dates_ , he’d captioned them. 

Wonwoo doesn’t tell Chan. When Chan falls asleep, he sneaks downstairs and brews a pot of peppermint tea to help soothe Chan’s throat from the abuse it took. And as he waits for the water to boil, Wonwoo scrolls through each job listing and reads the description, the requirements. They’re more management work but for medical equipment, not for people. Not idols. Forty hours a week, holidays off, four or five days a week, depending on how he divides his time. Some are in Seoul, some in Busan. 

Thirty minutes from Changwon if he drives. 

This time, it’s not the idea of interviewing that has the walls closing in. Wonwoo doesn’t fear an interview where it’s mostly for pretense—Minjun has guaranteed him a new job—and he doesn’t fear working with inanimate objects for a career. It’s an unknown, but it’s becoming more of a welcoming unknown over the past few years, especially over the past half-year. 

Wonwoo instead imagines Chan. He imagines having two managers that want to spite you for giving them more work to do for the same salary; having a father that is never pleased, that will rather die than comfort or encourage you in any capacity; having fans that pick at your carcass when you fall to your death from those ever-swaying stilts; having no one to crawl into bed with. Crying to no one. Trusting nobody. A dark stage, standing alone. 

He thinks of those tablets of benzodiazepines. How easy it is to watch the world blur and dampen while your parents and older brother lie rooms away. It’s the silliest and most irrational thought of all—but Wonwoo’s brain doesn’t filter it, the same way it refuses to filter the tremor in his hands as he carries two, steaming cups of tea back upstairs— 

He imagines telling Chan. Then Chan, sweet and pliable and stuffed with thousands of expectations, answering, _If your objective is to make me kill myself, it’s working_. 

Memories take new meaning now. 

At nineteen years old, Chan won solo artist of the year at the Seoul Music Awards. He had stiff competition despite his insane popularity. He’d done a softer concept that year, his album going more towards the ballad route than his usual love-pop; it was the first time Colours and prospective fans could hear his vocal range in soulful pieces, could appreciate his lyricism, could watch him spin and sway on a gorgeous stage embellished with fairy lights and rose petals. 

Sheer, baby pink gown draped over his lean stature, white roses in his hair and crystals dotting along his waterline, Chan sang from his chest and danced with his soul. He was shoeless and relying on his ballet foundation to blend seamlessly with his background dancers as they oscillated along with him, complementing his performance. And when he was done, he bowed to the audience, lips stretched wide to bare his perfect smile, eyes wide and wet and overjoyed. 

Wonwoo watched the entire event backstage. He was in a greenroom surrounded by other managers, by a chaos of staff and crazed instructions barked through their earpieces. Chan sat with his labelmates in the audience and watched the other performances go on; once the award session began, Wonwoo stood with Chan’s phone and looked on as KaTalk messages poured in from friends, family, coworkers. Lots of compliments on his vocal range and his ballet; lots of prayers for him to earn an award before the night ended. 

A message from his younger brother telling him he was proud. A message from his mother saying he’d improved a lot since the last time she saw him perform a second arabesque. A message from his father telling him to be cognizant of his posture when he’s sitting, because _you’re still being watched_. Red and Yubin got in touch, too, sending in fingers-crossed emoticons by the tens in the group thread. 

It was a big night for Chan and a big night for Wonwoo; the emcees introduced the award, pulled the card, and once _Lee Chan!_ was shouted into the microphone, every camera cut to a shocked and standing Chan covering his mouth with one hand, eyes nearly bulging from their sockets. Wonwoo remembers his impromptu speech too well, as well as everything that came after it: glittered, baby pink Chan stood on that stage with his solo artist of the year award clutched in one hand, and through a threat of tears said, “I’ll never stop being thankful to Colours for giving me this opportunity. My mom says I came out of the womb dancing, and that once I started I never wanted to stop. I never want to stop. Every year I fall more and more in love with dance and song. Colours—this is all because of you. I’m standing here today, because you let me. Thank you so much. I love you all. I love you.” 

Chan cried hard on his way backstage. Wonwoo cried harder. They reconvened in that crowded greenroom, and before taking his phone from Wonwoo to call his parents, before putting down his award, before shrugging off his itchy gown—he barreled right into Wonwoo’s arms, holding him tight enough that Wonwoo’s ribcage clamped down over his lungs. 

Who was Wonwoo to deny him that? 

Staff barking into earpieces, artists coming back from sitting in the audience, crowds navigating around them to grab their belongings or move around equipment, it didn’t fucking matter—and neither Wonwoo nor Chan moved, spoke. Chan cried his makeup off into Wonwoo’s button-down, and Wonwoo buried his nose in Chan’s hair, inhaled mint and floral body wash, and cried, too. 

(Even then, Chan trusted him. 

Maybe he loved him.)

  
  


_Shibari for beginners: how to tie simple knots_. 

Wonwoo slowly scrolls through the e-book, a mug of coffee in his other hand. 

“It’s a little chilly, but Jeju is nice, isn’t it? It feels like we’re on vacation or something.” 

He’s spent a few years in high school watching how-to vids and practicing with his uniform ties for absolutely no reason, since it’s not like he had a girlfriend (or girl) willing to be tied up, but still. His horny little brain had him tying his fucking ties over and over. He hasn’t practiced in forever, though. It’s never a bad idea to read up. 

“Doesn’t it? Wonwoo hyung?” 

Wonwoo glances up over his phone. Across from him sits Sunye, bundled up in a furry coat, hands curled around a mug of her own coffee. They’re sitting by the window of a coffee shop, the Dongmun market just down the street. Seungkwan and Chan are busy filming their exploration, and they—their managers—are temporarily off-duty, leaving them in the producers’ watchful hands. Which meant Sunye wanted to grab a little something to eat, and she wanted Wonwoo to come with her. Only a fucking idiot would say no to Min Sunye. 

He needs to be paying attention. Not to his e-book, but to Sunye. It’s rude to be absorbed in his phone when he’s being spoken to. So, he sets it facedown on their tiny little table, says, “It does. A nice escape from Seoul,” and busies his mouth with another sip from his mug. The coffee is a little too bitter for his tastes, but he and Chan didn’t get much sleep the night before; he set his alarm for four a.m. so that Chan could go back to his room and ‘wake up’ for the cameras. Wonwoo doesn’t think he’s going to get appropriate sleep anymore. He’d rather fuck and/or talk to Chan—always. 

Sunye gives him a sliver of a smile. “You’re somewhere else. What’s going on in that handsome little head of yours?” 

Handsome little head. Wonwoo ties not to meander on that for too long, but it’s difficult with her boring holes in his face. He flushes, cheeks heating up, and stammers, “J’st tired. Didn’t get a lot of sleep.” 

“Ah,” she says, “it’s hard for me to sleep in a new environment, too. Seungkwan can sleep anywhere; I tell him how jealous I am all the time.” 

“Chan can’t. I try to bring his sheets or pillow from the dorms so he has something familiar. It also helps if I take the airspray I use to purify the air and spray it in the hotel room, or—wherever,” he waves a vague hand around, “I read somewhere that it fools your brain into thinking you’re still at home. He claims that it doesn’t really help, but I noticed that he sleeps a lot faster when I use… it.” His voice falters off once he finds her lips spreading wider and wider the more he blabbers on; heated flush to his cheeks deepening, he says, “Sorry.” 

Sunye carefully sets her mug on the table and moves on to tear off a piece of the scone they bought. It was meant to be shared between them since she, quote-unquote ‘didn’t want to be the only one eating’, but so far she’s the only one that’s been nibbling on it. “It’s totally okay. I have a question.” 

Wonwoo stares at her like a deer in headlights, mid-sip. 

“Do you have kids? You’re very nurturing by nature and it’s cute to see.” 

Oh. Okay. He’s… honestly fine with the direction she’s taken this. The further it goes from where he was hoping it wouldn’t, he’ll gladly tolerate the ever-present ‘kids’ question. “I don’t,” he says, slow, “no one to have kids with, I’m afraid.” 

“Smart,” she laughs, “I have two little girls, and it’s a pain juggling work and raising kids. Especially the kind of work we do.” 

Wonwoo takes the sip he wanted to, then sets his ceramic mug down. “How do you do it? I can barely take care of myself, let alone two babies.” He knew she had kids, of course, but he’d never bothered to put a lot of thought into how she manages. They barely have time to carry conversation with one another, the only time they cross paths being backstage, in greenrooms, or when in the dorms, the company building. 

“I don’t,” she says simply. “I juggle responsibility with another manager, and I moved out of the dorms to be with my family two years ago. I don’t know how much longer I’ll work full-time. My girls are in primary school and I want to be more present for them.” 

Wonwoo nods along. “Right.” 

“Anyway,” Sunye laughs, shifting in her chair, “I was just asking. You’d be a good dad one day—if that’s what you want.” 

If that’s what he wants. “Thanks,” he says. He’s pretty sure that’s not what he wants. And that thought settles in his stomach like three shots of vodka. A burn that warns for an early morning barfing his guts in a toilet. 

There it is again. The sickness of being the family’s shame. 

He tries to not harp on it too long. If he’s going to be an embarrassment, he already is; no kids won’t rectify that. Dating a woman will barely put a dent in it. Even if he tried to fight for their approval now, he’ll always be that late bloomer, no nine year-old child to call his own at thirty-one. 

When they eventually go to find Chan and Seungkwan standing by the entrance to Dongmun market, all those insecurities swirl down the drain; Chan looks delectable, hair wind-blown, ears and cheeks and tip of nose red from the cold. His bomber jacket drowns his torso, bunching up over his fingers. In one hand he’s holding the shut camera; his other is curled around a cup. Probably coffee. 

“Got you something, hyung,” Chan says when Wonwoo approaches. Wonwoo isn’t given a chance to respond other than a confused hum when Chan produces a little baggy from the inside pocket of his coat and hands it to him. “Pomegranate. They had a lot of fruit, even some off-season.” 

Wonwoo takes the baggie and looks inside. Sure enough, there are organic pomegranate fruits inside. He’s already been feeling a little emotional today, and this isn’t helping. At all. He gives Chan a warm smile, hopes it sends the message a kiss to his temple would. “Thank you.” 

Chan pats the crook of his elbow with a few fingers not wrapped around the camera stick, then turns to where Sooyeon, Sunye, and Seungkwan are huddled, chatting about their next stop. 

Sunye and Wonwoo linger behind while the two boys continue filming their tour through the city. In between gaps of short conversation, Wonwoo reads his ebook, imagining holding the silky rope Chan purchased while he does so. Holding it in both hands, Chan standing naked in front of him, facing away, while he curves it across his chest, makes the knots between his shoulder blades. Tying the second rope to the first. Admiring how pretty the pink and red looks against his skin—skin that’ll be burning in similar shades once Wonwoo’s finished with him. 

He reads the safety (check your partner’s baseline temperature and color as control for how tight the rope is), hallucinates creating patterns down Chan’s back, his front. He wants to put Chan in a hogtie one day. That’ll make him really feel like he’s being packaged, owned. Hopeless even if in reality he’s safe. But, that’s too complicated right now. Wonwoo will start a little easier—the double-column tie. Work it up Chan’s arms. Trap him. 

Thank god for knee-length coats, buttoned all the way up; Wonwoo’s sporting a semi in his jeans. Sunye is pointing at storefronts, exclaiming, “Oh, I love those,” at pictures of dessert, and Wonwoo is getting hard. “Eunyoo’s favorite food is chocolate. I try to limit how much she eats, but her dad can never say no to her.” 

“Spoils her?” Wonwoo tries, flicking out of the e-book. He’ll have to reconvene when his erection goes down again. And talking about Sunye’s family is doing the trick. 

“Big time,” Sunye laughs softly. She takes a glance at where Chan and Seungkwan are sharing tangerine slices, cameras pointed in their faces while they chew. “He wanted boys, but then Eunyoo and Hajin were born and he said ‘no more. Two is plenty’.” Another laugh. 

Wonwoo makes a sound of acknowledgement. He wants to eat the fruit Chan got him, but opening pomegranate is not a good idea right now. Too messy and taxing. He’ll ask for a tangerine once they take a break from filming. 

A break comes around lunch time, when they go to a famous seafood restaurant. He can’t stand the taste of fish, so he buys salad and a side of apples, sits in a corner with the production team and Sunye. Chan and Seungkwan get a table a few away, and a chef comes to talk to them about the seafood, how to crack open crab legs without making a mess, how to fry up some cod on their personal grill. 

It’s supposed to be instructional, teach viewers about the food industry in Jeju. Wonwoo stops trying to listen pretty quickly; he has zero interest in animals from the sea. He’ll have to buy some proper food once they’re done here. 

Sunye and Sooyeon are talking about… something. The weather. There isn’t a lot to talk about when you’re already very familiar with one another. Wonwoo isn’t paying attention to that, either, and decides to busy his time going through KaTalk.

 **Park Minjun**

Hey, I’ll actually be taking a day-trip to the Asan Seoul location late next week. 

I don’t know if it’s too soon to ask if we could catch up & have dinner. Think about it. [2:02 p.m.] 

Wonwoo decides to hold off on contemplating that until he gets through the other messages. He needs time to think. 

**Kwon Soonyoung**

How is jeju????? Is it as cold as it is in seoul?? [11:42 a.m.] 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

Kinda [2:10 p.m.]

**Mom**

Will we be seeing you next month? [7:16 a.m.] 

Ugh. Wonwoo types the script he’s been using for several years now, then flicks back over to his e-book. He doesn’t want to think about tolerating family and incessant, prying questions. One thing at a time.

 **Jeon Wonwoo**

I’ll have to see the schedule for the rest of the year. High chance I won’t have the time.

Sorry. [2:12 p.m.] 

He’s able to read the chapter _double-column shibari tie, bight pulley_ and study the instructional photos before their time at the restaurant comes to its conclusion; they’re being herded back into the company vans a few minutes before 3:30, taking the half-hour drive back to the villa. There’s a beach trip planned for the evening, but Sooyeon wants shots of them relaxing around the property, engaging in banter, whatever other b-roll to tie a mini-series together. Day two is supposed to be the busiest, since in-between there’ll be solo and duo interviews about their lives as idols and more brotherly bullshit. Stuff Chan’s good at. 

Their on-site stylists get them seated in a makeshift dressing room—an empty backroom that looks over the veranda through picture windows—and Chan sits off on a couch to the side while Seungkwan is being prepped to go first. Jihye takes a few outfits off the racks and extends them to Chan, so he can choose which to wear. “I like this,” Chan runs a palm over the baby blue hoodie and the dark jeans, feeling the soft material between two fingers. 

“Great,” Jihye chirps, “Five minutes and I’ll be ready for you.” And then she’s off, her and her assistant setting out the makeup on their foldable table. 

Wonwoo hands him his filled water bottle and two caffeine pills, then settles down on the couch next to him with his own water. “What does Sooyeon-ssi plan for you to talk about?” 

Chan pops the pills and swallows it down with two gulps of water. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he says, “About how nice it is to get away and relax, our busy schedules back in Seoul, stuff like that,” eyes trained at where a hair noona sprays Seungkwan’s fringe into place. “Hyung.” 

“Hm?” Wonwoo takes a glance at the profile of his face. His hair is messy from being exposed to the elements, locks framing his jaw in a haphazard curtain. They’ve let it grow longer than usual. Wonwoo wants to thread his fingers through, pull it back from his pretty face, but he obliterates the impulse by tightening his grip around his water bottle. 

“I think I’m going to talk about the scandal again.” Chan meets his eyes, expression unreadable, stern. “I brought it up with Sooyeon-nim and she—she says it may be a good idea. To express more remorse.” 

Wonwoo considers him carefully, lips parted. Then, “do you think it’s a good idea, too?” 

Chan nods. “I need Colours to know. I don’t want them to think that I’m trying to pretend... you know. That what I did never happened.” 

He isn’t sure what thoughts are rational anymore. Rationality doesn’t seem to exist in this industry, and that’s a realization that he struggles with the most. If Wonwoo were to work under the industry’s parameters, constant and extreme remorse is always the best way to go; if the artist sounds genuine enough, fans will slowly forgive. The key is to convince thousands of onlookers that you understand putting your personal desires before them was an awful thing to do—and, again, in this world it is. Once the contract is signed and your face is out there, you belong to whoever buys your albums, attends your concerts. Whoever looks at you and decides to steal a piece. 

Step outside of boundaries, and the inverse is true. No one should have to beg for forgiveness for putting their autonomy first. Every fan that gives them shit should be flicked off and told to mind their fucking business. No one signs a contract to be _owned_ , to be seen as a possession and picked at by vultures. And, interspersed, Wonwoo’s personal feelings come into play: Lee Chan gets to choose. Lee Chan should never apologize for being a kid, for being a young adult that wants to live a life separate from his persona. Chan has chosen who he belongs to, and it’s not the world, not his father, not his job—

Lee Chan has chosen Wonwoo. He _decided_ that. 

Wonwoo doesn't care who’s looking. In this breath, this moment, he doesn’t give a fuck. Wonwoo reaches out, using the backs of his fingers to brush Chan’s lopsided fringe from his face, unveiling his other cheekbone, the other half of his eye. Chan sits quietly and watches him, nose-tip and shell of his ear still pink from the cold. Wonwoo’s hand begins to tremble as he curls it around Chan’s nape, palm pressing in, grounding himself and, more importantly, grounding Chan. 

“Do what you think is best,” Wonwoo whispers to him. The room is loud with Sooyeon explaining where to set up for the interview, hairspray bottles wheezing, Seungkwan and Sunye’s laughter. A shield that contains Wonwoo’s voice. “I support you no matter what.” 

Chan slowly holds Wonwoo’s forearm, fingers barely making it around the circumference. His skin is so warm through the material of Wonwoo’s shirt; he wants to feel it with no barriers in-between. (Tonight.) “Do you want me to do it?” he whispers back. 

Wonwoo thinks of dodging the question. Diverting attention. But, that wouldn’t be fair to Chan. He needs to be that man worth trusting; so, he gives Chan a wry smile, lips twisting all wrong on his face, and breathes, “I wish you didn’t have to. I wish I could make this all go away.” 

Chan is staring at him. His expression is almost stunned, like he hadn’t expected Wonwoo to give him a real answer. His grip tightens on Wonwoo’s arm, a brand that he’ll feel for the rest of the day. “You do make it go away,” he says. “I forget—when it’s just you and I.”

Ah. Oh, _shit_. Wonwoo’s been doing such a great job keeping the sutures together, refusing to let his guts fall out through the incision in his abdomen. There’s no rattling of his ribcage where that monster lies behind, no four walls crawling in to crush him inside. Instead, as Jinhye calls out Chan’s name and Chan stands and goes to the chair without another word, without another glance, Wonwoo stares while the world spins into a messy watercolor before his eyes. He’s aching. It’s a full-body ache, radiating out from behind his mediastinum. 

Wonwoo tries to shove it in. He can’t do this here. Another burst of laughter erupts, this time from Seungkwan only, and he hurriedly wipes the tears from out of his vision and jumps up. He’s awkwardly adjusting his shirt from where it frumped up around his hips when he manages a glance in Seungkwan’s direction. 

It’s Sunye’s gaze he finds. 

She’s smiling. A smile he can’t discern. That he isn’t sure is because she saw them, or because she already happened to be smiling and noticed him standing. 

Honestly, he doesn’t care, not right now. Wonwoo can’t be bothered to try and return the smile, either; he averts his gaze, stumbles out of the room, and leaves to find the closest bathroom. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

That’d be fine. Let me know when you’re in the city. [4:12 p.m.] 

  
  


The temperature drops further tonight. It’s four degrees celsius outside, and a few complaints from Seungkwan later, they decide to turn the heat on. 

Filming ends at eleven p.m. Chan and Seungkwan have dinner out on the veranda together as their final scene of day two, and then they’re released to shower, relax, sleep. Wonwoo, understanding his own limits, retires to his room before their dinner scene is filmed to take a long shower, cry, and then lie in his bed and try not to cry anymore. He doesn't want to give himself a headache; just in case, he takes a prophylactic dose of the painkillers he packed for Chan. 

He sits out on his balcony with socks, a long-sleeved sleepshirt, long pants, and a blanket. History repeats itself: that off-kilter sensation, his center deviating from its orbit, settles into his bones, deep in his chest. A hungry gnaw, except now he’s trying to ward off the urge to curl into himself and sob. There are memories that return to him, piecemeal; ones he never thought to be significant until tonight. The night Chan hugged Wonwoo as if he were one of the reasons he’d earned that solo artist of the year award; every touch and lingering glance and smile Chan had gifted him in-between schedules; the way he’d pick up Wonwoo’s hand before he’d ever think to pick up his father’s calls. 

Their hiatus from the first time they kissed to the second, when Chan leaned his head on Wonwoo’s shoulder in the greenroom and Wonwoo thought, _poor kid’s tired_ . Thought that even as his hands began their tremor, even as his chest hitched and Chan’s heat peeled the skin clean from his muscle. The day in the studio where, if Wonwoo were a braver man, he would’ve tightened his grip on Chan’s jaw and kissed him. Sweet, bubblegum lips, eyes round with trust. Wonwoo could’ve done _anything_ in that moment and Chan would’ve let him, wouldn’t he? 

Wonwoo yields to Chan, and Chan yields, too. The bloom of love in Wonwoo’s eyes are impossible to ignore. It hurts. Gnaws at him like hunger, brings expectations and fantasies that’ll never come true. _You’re my everything. Please stay with me_. 

He’s shivering. It’s not from the cold. Arms drape over his shoulders like a blanket, and Wonwoo doesn’t think; he leans into them, holds the crook of an elbow and turns his head to kiss bare skin. His throat hurts and his eyes burn, but he swallows the _I love you_ , and says, “Chan.” 

“Wonwoo hyung,” that sweet, sweet voice whispers into his cheekbone. Its breath is warm, enveloping. Mint conditioner, mint toothpaste, floral body lotion. Nothing has happened, yet Wonwoo already misses this. 

He twists in Chan’s arms to face him. Their faces are mere centimeters apart, breathing one another’s air, and Wonwoo drinks in the heated flush to Chan’s cheeks, fresh from a shower. His hair is damp but not dripping, color darker from water. Another one of Wonwoo’s sleepshirts drowns his torso. Chan’s eyes are heavy-lidded as he watches Wonwoo watch him, lashes fanning out to create little shadows below his waterline. 

Wonwoo takes a second to stare. 

(How did he become so fucking lucky? Why can’t he enjoy the moment and not ruin it by fretting over the future? He needs to enjoy tonight. Tonight, and tomorrow, and everyday he can get to be by Chan’s side.) 

“Baby,” Wonwoo exhales. Carding trembling fingers through his hair, Wonwoo closes the gap between their mouths. Chan opens for him instantly, sighing as Wonwoo laps over his tongue, tasting, taking. He scritches at Chan’s scalp, categorizes every sound, every twitch, every way Chan reacts to his kisses. He laves over Chan’s bottom lip, then nibbles, tugs, soothes it once he’s done. Dips back into Chan’s mouth to swallow his soft moans. 

“Want you,” Chan says against his mouth. His eyes flutter closed, and he breathes in shakily, chest stuttering. “Please.” 

“Yeah? How? Tell me,” Wonwoo gives him a long peck. Then another, their lips smacking. He holds Chan in place around the back of his neck, fingers digging into his throat, watches Chan tip his chin up and part his lips, hazy eyes glued to Wownoo’s. “Tell hyung how you want him.” 

He can feel Chan swallow beneath his fingers. “Fuck me,” he whimpers, “rough. Wan’—want you to prove that you own me. Be rough, hyung, please.” 

Wonwoo loosens his hold. Gaze trained on Chan’s slack mouth, he gives it another, languid kiss. Licks into his mouth again, lapping deeply, drinking those tiny little gasps and swallowing it for himself. “Gonna tie you up tonight. Okay?” 

Chan reacts immediately, moaning high in his chest. “Okay,” he tries, “okay, yeah.” 

“Gonna make sure you can’t run from my dick. I wanna keep your legs apart and fuck you hard like that. Okay, baby?” 

“Please,” Chan says. Wonwoo can feel him trembling in the arms around him. 

“Go inside and take off your clothes. Don’t get on the bed.” 

There’s no pause before Chan unwraps himself from Wonwoo and steps into the bedroom from the balcony. He takes the time to breathe deeply— _one, two, three, hold. Out. Three, two, one_ —and recall the material he reviewed without looking at his phone. He’d been reading it all day; if he can’t do a simple fucking knot or two, he’s more of an idiot than he thought. If he can just keep his emotions under control, he can do this. He can give Chan this. 

Wonwoo stands up and leaves the blanket in his balcony chair. He stretches out his arms, his legs, breathes some more while counting, and then steps over the threshold and closes the sliding door behind him. The lights are off in his bedroom, but it’s the moonlight that illuminates the open space through the glass door, the picture windows. Chan is standing near the foot of the bed stark naked, his sleep clothes folded up on the floor. 

He’s as gorgeous as ever. Wonwoo won’t ever get accustomed to this, Chan’s skin, waxed and glowing with youth, his nipples pert from the cold, muscles lean. He’s sculpted to near-perfection, and the fading marks of possession Wonwoo left on his thighs are still there. Wonwoo categorizes this, too—the broadness of Chan’s shoulders in comparison to his body; the taper of his waist, then flare of his hips and thighs; his ass, full, pert slopes. Although most of it is due to genetics, Wonwoo can appreciate the hard work that went into Chan’s form. Prettiest guy he’s ever had the pleasure of fucking. 

Wonwoo grabs the collar and red rope from his carry-on. He leaves the rope on the foot of the bed just long enough to stand in front of Chan and say, “Gimmie my throat,” before Chan tips his head back and Wonwoo slips the collar on. He tugs it through the frame, sticks the prong through a hole, and then tests how tight it is by slipping his fingers underneath. Firm, but not overwhelming. Good. “Stay there,” he murmurs, then turns to pick up the rope. 

A soft, crimson red color. Chan chose well. It’s going to look so nice against his light skin. Wonwoo looks up from the rope to Chan’s lidded eyes, down to where he’s half-mast, then up again. “Hands behind your back.” He waits for Chan to obey before slowly circling him, predator assessing his prey. “Bend them. Like this.” He hangs the rope over his shoulder to bodily move Chan’s arms; he folds them so they cross his back, forearms stacked on top of one another, hands curled into fists. “Stay.” 

Once in position, Wonwoo starts working. It’s trickier than the book assumes. He starts with a knot just below Chan’s wrists, where his forearm begins, and works up between his shoulder blades. He crosses the rope so it curls over both of Chan’s shoulders and then crosses again below his pecs, ending at the knots at his back again. It’s an intricate pattern that keeps Chan’s arms up and folded, tied together, so he won’t lose position even if he loses strength. Wonwoo assesses the color and temperature of his skin, tugs at each knot to be sure it’s not too tight, and then takes a step back to admire his work. 

The job took a good ten, fifteen minutes, but Chan remained still and quiet through it—and now, as Wonwoo circles back to face Chan, he can see how affected the entire process made him; Chan’s dick is fully hard now, flushed and curving up towards his belly. He’s visibly breathing, wet mouth open and chest rising and falling shakily. And, Wonwoo was right. Red rope against Chan’s skin is so pretty. Ethereal. 

Wonwoo’s undeniably hard, too. The shape of his own erection is obvious in his sleep pants; he adjusts it, gives his shaft a squeeze to relieve some pressure. “Fuck,” Wonwoo groans. “I wish I could take pictures. Show somebody how sexy you look like this. Chan, shit.” One more squeeze, then Wonwoo forces himself to let go. 

“Yeah?” Chan breathes. “Who’ll you show? Think Minjun hyung would like t’see?” 

The flare of arousal that eviscerates Wonwoo’s spine should _not_ have burned from the mere thought of messaging Minjun pictures of idol superstar Lee Chan tied-up and begging for cock. He attempts to rein it in, but the low moan that escapes his throat is visceral, unrestrainable. “Yeah,” he says, licks his lips. “He’d be jealous as fuck. Pretty, young thing like you, wrapped up for me. Only me, yeah?” 

“Your property,” Chan says, “to show off.” 

Wonwoo licks two fingers, then reaches out and tugs at a nipple, twisting gently. Chan huffs out a breath, lashes fluttering. “The pictures I’d take… you taking my big dick. Record your moans as I fucked you. You have no idea how good you look being fucked, baby.” He slides over to the other nipple, gives it a tug, and then brushes over Chan’s tightening abdomen, feels the muscle leap under his touch. 

“ _Hyu_ —” 

“Such a whore,” Wonwoo slurs. Becoming delirious off of the moment, their scene. “Should an idol be such a slut, baby? How would your fans react to you whining over some cock?” He gets a loose grip around Chan’s cock and strokes it, slow enough to not be satisfying; Chan’s hips jolt into the touch, a soft moan tumbling out. “Think you’re meant to be an exotic dancer, not an idol.” 

Chan’s already leaking. Onto Wonwoo’s hands, down his own length. 

“Tell me,” Wonwoo urges, “think you were meant to be an idol? Or an exotic dancer? Men paying you to suck them off with those pretty lips of yours.” 

“Duh—dancer,” Chan tries. “Stripper.” 

“Maybe not. You’re bad at being a whore, too, can’t take my dick all the way down your throat.” He lets go of Chan’s cock and hushes him when Chan blurts a frustrated whimper. “I’ll teach you. After I get what I deserve, I’ll teach you how to be a good prostitute. Kneel on the bed. Now.” 

Chan’s been receding, and it’s obvious that there’s a fog between his ears when he doesn’t respond to the order right away. Wonwoo picks up the other rope from his carry-on and turns around to Chan’s pupils eclipsing the brown of his irides, to his chest heaving from his breaths. That won’t do. 

“See what I mean?” Wonwoo says—and before he can talk himself out of it, before Chan can return to earth, Wonwoo forces him back into the scene by slapping him across the face, a firm swing that shouldn’t show up in the morning. Chan’s head snaps to the side, and he yelps, which earns him four fingers shoved into his mouth and Wonwoo pressing his mouth to his ear, hissing, “Shut the fuck up. Do you want everyone to hear you?” 

Tears are welling in Chan’s eyes. He tries to speak through Wonwoo’s fingers, gasping, “Nuh-oh, no, I’m _sorry_.” 

Wonwoo shushes him again, takes his fingers out. “‘S okay, baby. Color?” 

“Green. I,” Chan swallows hard, “love it. You’re fine.” 

He gives a soft kiss to Chan’s temple. “Okay. Kneel on the bed.” 

This time Chan obeys. He does an awkward waddle onto the mattress since he can’t balance with his arms and then stays there, leaning back on his haunches. Wonwoo uses the other rope to tie Chan’s thighs to right above his ankles, where his shins begin. Once he has both thighs restrained in that position, he tests out the tightness by slipping two fingers underneath. “How does it feel?” 

Chan tries to squirm around, and the rope barely gives. “Fine,” he does a tiny laugh, “feels weird to not be able to move.” 

“Bad weird?” Wonwoo admires the contrast of the baby pink, the red, Chan’s heat-flushed skin blanketed in a sheen of sweat. Chan’s cock bobs between his spread thighs, unable to be covered since Chan is restrained in every way possible. Fuck. 

“Good,” Chan says. “I like it. Can’t stop you from doing whatever you want.” 

“You can’t,” Wonwoo affirms, and his voice is quivering. He can’t. Wonwoo can slap his thighs, his ass, until they’re scorched and Chan can’t do anything other than sob and beg. This amount of power is terrifying. This level of trust. He’s coming to terms with it—the fact that Chan genuinely trusts him—but that doesn’t mean there doesn’t remain a level of disbelief. Chan has to depend on Wonwoo to cater to his needs, to untie him when or if he asks. 

No one will be able to save him. Chan can theoretically scream for help, but then whoever shows up will see Chan naked and tied up. They’ll have that power over him, the knowledge that he’s gotten into this position in the first place. And he’s given this power to _Wonwoo_. 

“You’re incredible,” Wonwoo breathes. He watches his own hand roam over Chan’s pecs, the soft striations of his abdomen. He gives each thigh a squeeze, a rub, then tugs on the rope once more. Firm knot. Chan has nowhere to go. “Thank you.” 

A laugh flutters from Chan’s throat, slurred. “Thanking me already? You haven’t even fucked me yet.” 

“I’m just,” he pauses to contemplate his next words. But, if Chan is gifting him such a high level of trust, he has an obligation to give it back. Tit for tat. “I’m thankful. So, so thankful,” Wonwoo meets Chan’s weary eyes, “Do you realize how lucky I am? To have you?” 

Chan doesn’t do anything other than vocalize aimlessly, expression unmoving. 

“You’re perfect, Chan. Everything abou—I. Um. You’re amazing. I can’t not thank you for letting me have you like this.” He’s tearing up. He hopes Chan can’t see it, tries to blink them away and breathe through the ache throbbing in his lungs. Shakily exhaling, he says, “I’m so lucky. That’s why. You’re—” _everything, and I’m nothing. Nobody, a waste of life, the family’s shame. And, you. Your family’s brightest star despite the past half-year. Despite it all, you’re more than I’ll ever be._

You’re my everything. 

Chan’s next breath sounds suspiciously like a laugh, however brief. “Hyung,” he says, gentle, “I don’t know how I would’ve survived—this—without you. If you’re gonna thank me, I’ll thank you, too. So. Thank you.” 

They find one another’s eyes. Wonwoo can see his distorted reflection in those pupils, the backdrop of his room, Jeju. The villa is quiet. Wonwoo’s heart sings. 

Wonwoo cups the back of Chan’s head, fingers threading through damp hair, and leans forward to press his mouth to Chan’s. Chan puckers his lips, pressing harder, then relaxes, sighs. Wonwoo closes his eyes and listens to their shared breaths, a distant rustle of wind and leaves. Then, the way he’d practiced for months (for the past year, if he’s honest with himself), he whispers, “I love you.” 

It’s not really a confession. It’s not their first, either. Wonwoo knows he’s been so fucking obvious from the day he held Chan in his bed and kissed him over and over. And over. Chan’s first confession was that night, too. So, it doesn’t come as a surprise when Chan laughs, sniffs, laughs some more, and tells him, “Yeah. I love you, too.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t stop a tear or two from slipping; he’s too busy cradling Chan’s jaw in two hands and licking past the seam of his lips. He brushes his thumbs over the highpoint of Chan’s cheeks as he kisses him, basking in the careful, melodic way Chan returns it. Time sneaks by him as minutes tick in second-long increments. Nothing has changed, and yet Wonwoo is so happy it aches. 

“Sorry,” he laughs wetly, finally pulling back to watch his own thumb swipe over Chan’s kiss-swollen bottom lip. “I said that while we’re in the middle of a scene and you’re tied up. Bad timing.” 

Chan gives a short smile. “I’ll forgive you if you fuck me now.” 

“Right. Fucking you. Silly me.” Wonwoo sits back, takes a quick second to calm down, and then stands up off of the bed. “Horny demon,” he tuts, slapping Chan’s closest thigh lightly. Chan faux-yelps and tries to move away to no avail.

“Says the guy that has me tied up.” 

“Says the guy that _wanted_ to be tied up.” Wonwoo grabs the lube from the bag and walks over, climbing on the bed behind Chan. 

Chan scoffs. “I said I wanted to be treated roughly, not tied up.” 

“ _You_ bought the ropes, not me,” Wonwoo retorts. He uncaps the bottle and squeezes some of it onto his fingers, rubbing it around to warm the liquid. “Now, no more back-talk. If you want to be treated roughly, then be a good boy.” 

Chan squirms as well as he can. “I am. Your good boy is sitting here waiting for his master t—” 

Wonwoo snatches the back of the collar with his clean hand and shoves Chan forward; he goes easily, forehead hitting the duvet, body bouncing slightly. Chan expels a rush of air on the way down, but doesn’t shriek. “Shut the fuck up,” Wonwoo says. “Good boys are quiet and take what they’re given.” 

At this angle, Wonwoo can see everything—Chan’s ass cheeks, slightly spread to show his hole from the way his legs are tied; the soft, dark skin of his ballsacks; his cock, where it sits trapped between his lower belly and the bed. Wonwoo can't believe he didn’t think of buying bondage ropes earlier, before Chan did. “You were made for this,” he says, awed. 

Chan, clearly committed to being good, doesn’t answer, so Wonwoo continues with fulfilling their goal—fucking him. He rubs some of the lube along Chan’s perineum, over the furled muscle of his hole. It twitches, tightens, but Chan can’t move around too much. “Master, huh,” he mumbles while he works. “You want a master?” 

“You like it?” Chan stutters. “Or, do you prefer ssaem? Old man? Si—” 

Wonwoo sinks his index finger into him to the hilt, promptly shutting Chan up and having him gasp and jerk away instead. “I didn’t tell you to speak,” Wonwoo grits out. He crooks his finger and massages around, relentless once he finds the spot that makes Chan buck and whimper. Not letting him adjust to the first intrusion, he quickly introduces his middle finger to crook beside his index. “Keep your voice down or else I’ll have to gag you.” 

Chan muffles his sounds in the bed. He wants rough, so that’s what Wonwoo will give him. He pumps his fingers in a firm, steady tempo, more preoccupied with loosening him up than finding his prostate; if he does, it’s by coincidence. His other hand squeezes at his erection through his pants a few times, then he straightens up so he can tug them and his briefs down with one hand. Once his cock and balls are free to hang, heavy, between his legs, he scoots behind Chan’s bound body, keeping his fingers twisted deep inside of him. 

“There we go. Knew you could be obedient if you tried.” Wonwoo decides to cut stretching him short. Chan wants rough. He won’t go so far as to have him limping tomorrow since he has another filming day, but he _will_ make sure Chan has to pay attention to his body language. Compromise. “Okay, baby.” He pulls his fingers out and wraps them around his own cock, stroking himself to slick his shaft up with the residual lube. 

They’ll need extra slip if he’s going to fuck him like this. Wonwoo drizzles some more onto his dick, and then listens to Chan hiss when he pours even more directly onto his hole, lets it drip before remembering he brought towels for a reason. Wonwoo quickly leans over the bed to grab those and shove them between Chan’s legs. The less mess to clean up, the better. Wonwoo leans over Chan’s back, kisses his jutting shoulder blades, then where his forearms are bound together, then sits up. 

“Remember,” Wonwoo says, lining his cockhead up with Chan’s hole, stroking, twisting at the crown, “keep it down. I don’t want to gag you; I like how you sound taking my cock. Behave.” 

Chan nods as best he can. His upper body is being kept up by his forcibly bent legs underneath him and his shoulders where they dig into the mattress. Wonwoo admires the tensing muscle in his arms and back, presses his clean hand where there isn’t any rope. “Yessir,” Chan answers, quiet. 

Wonwoo reaches around to give Chan’s cock a few, encouraging tugs while he presses his hips forward. Chan gasps, opening up for him sweetly. The furled muscle blooms around Wonwoo’s cockhead, and he pushes past the resistance, sinking in without taking any breaks. Chan squeaks and stutters as if he’s continuously holding his breath and then letting it out, writhing, head twisting side to side. “Beautiful,” he grits out, “I’m such a lucky man. Wish I could record this, Chan— _fuuck_.” 

Chan is as tight as ever, muscle spasming once Wonwoo bottoms out. He takes a moment to breathe, to try not to fucking bust a nut in two strokes. But, the entire image is arousing to an unimaginable degree: Chan willingly at his mercy, muffling his cries so he won’t wake up the entire fucking villa. Chan, asking to be treated like property. _Wonwoo’s property_. He bucks into Chan a couple of times, jostling his smaller body, and then curls his hands around his waist and groans at how small it is. His fingers can almost make the circumference of Chan’s middle. That’s—holy shit. 

“Y’okay?” Wonwoo sighs. 

Chan twists his head to free his mouth. “Yea—yeah, jus’. Fuck me, hyung, please, _fuh_ —” 

Wonwoo starts a relentless pace. The slapping of skin and lube squelching favors too loud, so Wonwoo quickly switches to grinding in deep and hard rather than giving Chan his entire length. And Chan, jostling and straining in the ropes, shoves his face back into the comforter to hide his moans, his whines. “Made for me, aren’t you, baby,” Wonwoo grunts, head tipping forward. He’s going to burn alive from Chan’s tight heat. “Shaped to take me so well. Look at you.” 

He watches his cock breach Chan over and over again, how wide his rim stretches to accommodate Wonwoo’s girth. “Hyung, hy’ng,” Chan’s voice has gone hoarse, desperate, a poor attempt at not disturbing Wonwoo’s neighbors, “slap me, ple-ease, hit me—” 

There’s a fine line here. They’re already straddling the boundary with the soft creaking of the bed, of lube and skin. Wonwoo curses himself for not testing out how thin the walls are during the day, when he could play music from his phone in one room and then walk into the next; he’d only tested out the door hinges. But, he’s feeling the same laxity that he felt when he touched Chan’s nape in the bonus room. If anybody hears anything suspicious, he’s fine with them thinking it was him watching porn, or something. It’s better to be a weirdo pervert that watches porn without headphones than to be a weirdo pervert that’s fucking young idols in the middle of the night. 

Wonwoo grants him his wish. He slaps Chan’s asscheek, then gives him a closed fist to the hip. He grabs a chunk of hair and _tugs_ , hisses, “this is what you want?” and allows Chan a few, semi-loud grunts before he releases him to flop back onto the bed. Then he balances himself by pressing down on Chan’s collar, where the leather lies flat over his nape, and keeps fucking him with half of his length, _grinding_ and forcing Chan to feel the thick weight of his cock directly on his protate. He knows it must be overwhelming, bordering on too much—but Chan can’t do much of anything about that, can he? 

He gave Wonwoo this right. He’s surrendered his body for Wonwoo’s pleasure. “Perfect cocksleeve,” Wonwoo tells him, out of breath, panting, “Nice and tight. ‘Cause it’s never been used before me, has it? Your young little ass? Channie?” 

“Just you,” Chan sobs. He’s crying. Wonwoo forces his face to the side so he can see his flushed cheeks, red-rimmed eyes. “‘S only ever gonna be you, Wonwoo—hyung— _ah_ , only want you.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes, yes, forever—” 

_Forever_. Damn his emotions for ruining everything. He’s thirty-one and can’t help it, succumbing to it when a man that’s _ten years his junior_ can temper himself in front of hundreds of cameras. And yet there are no cameras here, no fans ready to put a scalpel to his chest, and still Wonwoo’s hips stutter, that ache dragging up a sob from his trachea. “Chan,” he says, and he’s crying again, god fucking damnit, he’s crying. Not loudly, not excessively, but there are tears that swirl his vision of Chan’s bowed back, his ass clapping around his cock. “Fuck. I love you.” 

Chan hums as if confused, a sound that raises in inflection at the end. Then, seemingly returning from where his head has taken him, he jostles with a laugh and says, “Thank you for trusting me.” 

Wonwoo fucks him. Quick, hard, gasping and grunting through his tears while Chan sobs into the damp comforter below. “Chan,” he whines, “Chan, Chan, fuck, want you forever, too, I don’t—” _wanna go_ . _Don’t wanna leave you. Do I have to leave you? Would you want me to go?_

He cages Chan’s body with his own, forehead pressed to Chan’s collar. Chan’s hair tickles his forehead, and it’s a weird sensation, sobbing through an orgasm. Not sobbing because of how good it is, how tight and hot Chan feels—and he _is_ —but because he’s stupidly in love. 

In love and mourning what he hasn’t lost.

His release pours into Chan’s convulsing hole. It’s an intense climax that locks up every fiber of muscle in Wonwoo’s body, pixelating his eyesight. He holds Chan’s waist so tightly that his skin twists between his fingers, flushing red where blood rushes to the surface. Distantly, Wonwoo can hear Chan hissing and groaning into the mattress, can feel his body make futile attempts to escape the press of his cock on his prostate, the grip on his skin—but it reaches Wonwoo’s ears as if traveling underwater. Muted and distant, molasses slow. It’s a sensation of pleasure that sinks in and fades away before he can savor it. 

And then it’s gone. Wonwoo comes up, breaching water, and Chan’s panting is loud, the way he’s sobbing shaking his entire, smaller body in Wonwoo’s hold. Chan’s words are slurred, lost, a mess of _Wonwoo hyung, hyungie, hyung_ , over and over between wet sobs. Wonwoo pulls his flagging cock out of Chan and leans back on his haunches, struggles to focus on how Chan’s gaping hole drips his seed onto the towel below. Between his thick, bound thighs, Chan is still rock-hard, leaking precome in strings. 

“Wet,” Wonwoo tries. “Wet like a pussy. Shit.” He doesn’t think twice before leaning over and lapping up his own come, ignoring the artificial taste of lubricant that’s interspersed. If he cleans Chan up well enough, he’ll be able to find Chan’s natural musk somewhere in there, his sweat and the bodywash he’s scrubbed on his body a few hours prior. 

He can feel Chan’s muscles leaping, how he’s trying to run away from Wonwoo’s insistent tongue but _can’t_ . Chan’s trapped, at Wonwoo’s mercy, and once he seems to realize that through the fog, he whines, begs, “Nuh—no, no, ‘s too much, _please_.” Wonwoo holds him open with two palms, digging into each swell until his nail beds turn white from the pressure. 

“But you like being forced, don’t you? Channie?” Wonwoo’s breaths ghost over Chan’s hole, and he watches it struggle to clench down from how Wonwoo’s fat cock stretched it open. “No?” 

Chan doesn’t use a color. Wonwoo assumes that means _green_ , and then dips back in to suck and lap at him some more, making a mess of it. He can feel his cock twitching pathetically at how Chan tries and fails to escape, how his arm muscles tense as he strains against the rope. Wonwoo holds him down by the hands on his ass and uses that leverage to fuck the blade of his tongue into Chan, moaning and letting the vibrations wrack over Chan’s body. 

He’s learning, and quick. Chan is the most sensitive when he’s being eaten out. The way his moans turn desperate and high are good tells, along with the fact that he’s struggling the hardest he’s ever struggled since he got tied up. Wonwoo fucks him with his tongue, not slowing down, not giving Chan a break, and Chan thrashes uselessly, whimpers. “Hyung, no, no, Won—Wonwoo hyung, coming, com—” 

It’s a gradual build to Chan’s release. First, Wonwoo hears Chan’s breath catch, stutter, then catch again; there’s a long pause as he clenches around Wonwoo’s tongue, and the furled muscle begins to convulse as Wonwoo sucks and kisses, maintaining that pressure, that suction. The spasms travel out, over his legs, up his back and arms, Wonwoo having to pin him so he can keep tongue-fucking him through his climax—two, three, five seconds of quivering, and finally Chan’s cock spurts milky-white seed over the towel. The breath he’s holding is expelled in a high, broken moan, ending in a groggy, “ _Hyung_.” 

Chan goes limp in the bindings. It maintains his posture even as he dissolves into a heap of heavy breaths and sweat, even as Wonwoo sits back up to appreciate his work. He wants to take more time to drink in Chan in red and pink and that brown leather collar, dressed in nothing else but his own fluids—but Chan has been stuck in this position for a while, and he doesn’t want to make him more sore or in more pain than he already is; Wonwoo tugs and undoes the knots along Chan’s back and forearm first. 

Once the rope unravels and Chan’s arms flop down by his sides, Wonwoo works on the knots around his legs. 

He removes the soiled towel and rolls it up before he tugs the final knot free. Chan flops down completely, eyes closed, mouth hanging open so he can gulp in more air, and Wonwoo carefully rolls the towel so the clean sections are on the outside. Then he deposits it somewhere on the floor and crawls over to scoop Chan into his arms and hold him tight. 

Wonwoo finds anywhere to land a kiss. Anywhere close enough, and then further out. At the crown of his head, his ear, over the hoop earring, down his jaw. He twists Chan’s head with fingers under his chin to land a gentle one on his slack mouth. He massages Chan’s limbs out until he’s flopping uselessly against Wonwoo’s larger, broader body, sighing. He isn’t afraid anymore. Chan is lingering in subspace—Wonwoo can see it in his dazed eyes, the nonsense words that he tries to vocalize that end up fumbling out as whines, mumbles. It was a lot. Tied up, eaten out until you come untouched, surrendering yourself completely to somebody else. 

Wonwoo isn’t afraid anymore. He’s enamored. In love. The future terrifies him, yeah, but he isn’t going to worry about that right now (going to _try_ not to worry about that right now). His worry remains on easing Chan from the recesses of his mind safely, unfurling tense muscle, kissing any patch of skin and murmuring love into it. “Thank you,” Wonwoo says, voice wet with tears, “Chan, you’re—you’re so good. Good boy,” a kiss on the jut of his shoulder, “perfect,” a kiss on the junction of his neck, “I love you,” a kiss on the corner of his mouth, “I love you so much.” 

Chan makes sweet sounds in his throat as if saying _I hear you_ —and Wonwoo holds onto that like a lifeline, tightening his hold around Chan’s middle. “I’m so lucky,” Wonwoo whispers to his jaw before taking a nibble, soothing with tongue and lips. “The luckiest man on earth. Whoever gets to have you like this is so lucky. Whoever earns your trust. Chan.” How can words convey this ache? The tears that burn and slip past his waterline? 

Maybe they never will, but Wonwoo won’t stop trying. He’ll fumble again and again if it means Chan will someday know his heart. _Do I have to leave you? Would you want me to go?_

This time it’s Wonwoo that cries. He buries his nose into Chan’s cheek, mouth pressed to overheated skin, and holds Chan as the suture comes undone and his guts soil them both. 

“Do you ever think about working at a studio? Or—doing what Soonyoung does? You mentioned it before.” 

Wonwoo sits on the toilet lid and watches Chan stand in front of the mirror, watches as he examines his throat for any signs of the collar. There are no bruises aside from the indentation, lines on his skin that’ll disappear by call-time in four hours. Wonwoo has his sleep pants up, but Chan is still naked save for his briefs, freshly-washed after doing a quick rinse in Wonwoo’s bathroom. Hints of light-brown splotches peek out whenever he shifts, thighs tensing and relaxing. 

“Mm?” Chan hums, running his fingers down his own throat. “I mean—sometimes. Not much. Why?” 

Wonwoo shrugs a shoulder up. “Just. Asking.” 

Chan finds his eyes in the mirror, an eyebrow quirked up, before returning to examining his own skin for marks to cover. His hip is beginning to turn off-colored from where Wonwoo punched him, and red streaks travel underneath his briefs to where his thighs meet his ass. His waist has red prints in the shape of Wonwoo’s fingers. Thankfully, the silk material of the ropes means there aren’t any obvious bruises to have to dab concealer over; the spots where the knots dug in, where Chan strained and fought, are a light pink that’ll also disappear by calltime. 

“You don’t just ask things,” Chan says, “if you don’t have a reason for them.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t answer that. He lets the steady drip of water from the shower faucet answer for him, gaze averting to his own, sock-clad feet. “Did Soonyung ever tell you why he decided to stop dancing full-time? Not as, like, a main dancer?” 

“Not really,” Chan drawls. He picks up the vapor rub Wonwoo carried inside for him and dips his fingers into it. “He wanted to prioritize his private life, or something. More freedom.” 

“Yeah,” Wonwoo says, stops. He’s not sure where he’s going with this. The shaky plan was to get Chan to talk without any further prompting, but of course that isn’t working out, because Chan doesn’t speak if he doesn’t have anything he wants to say. That’s the person Wonwoo learned to meet in the middle; his scandal put a wrench in that dynamic, but he seems to be returning to baseline, finally. 

Chan rubs the ointment into his arms, legs, everywhere the rope touched, and then everywhere Wonwoo did. Transfixed, Wonwoo watches him do it, muscle gliding underneath hairless skin. “What? Are you asking me if I still plan to do that when I retire from idol life?” 

_I’m asking if you want to do that_ now. Aloud, Wonwoo says, “I know you love dancing. I was—um. Thinking about when you have to renegotiate your contract.” 

Chan tries to apply the rub between his shoulder blades; Wonwoo reaches out to scoop the residual from his fingers and does it for him. Dipping his head forehead and groaning in relief, Chan mutters, “That’s not for another three years.” 

Wonwoo hums. Three, whole fucking years that can turn into less than one if Chan pays out of it by January. 

“I’ll be twenty-four.” 

Another non-verbal rumble of acknowledgement. Chan looks up as Wonwoo sits back onto the toilet seat, giving Wonwoo a weary stare. “I’m not stepping down in three years, hyung. I have another nine years at _least_.” 

He’s being selfish. He knows. This is something that doesn’t involve him, shouldn’t hurt him the way it does—but it _hurts_. It burns, the almost aghast expression Chan is sporting, as if Wonwoo is insane to even hint at Chan cutting ties with Kaleidoscope and Colours in three years. Like this scandal has not hindered or altered his decision to be in the spotlight whatsoever, and Wonwoo is the only one that’s hoping. Dreaming of that apartment, those matching wedding bands, a life outside of this industry. 

Chan is abandoning him. That’s what he’s thinking. How can he be so _selfish_ ? Mind at odds with itself, Wonwoo battles the coexisting _this is his life and you have no say; you’re here for him and only him_ interspersed with _is it so wrong to want to live happily ever after with the man you love? Why does he not want that, too?_ Was this ever about Chan? 

“Wonwoo hyung. Wonwoo hyung. Hyung.” 

Wonwoo blinks, refocuses on where Chan now stands, in-between his legs, both hands on Wonwoo’s shoulders as he looks down at him. He rubs his eyes with the hand not covered in vapor rub, then meets Chan’s worried gaze. 

“Are you okay?” Chan delicately brushes some of Wonwoo’s loose strands from his face, out from trapped under his frames. Then, quieter, “Are you insinuating I terminate my contract at twenty-four?” 

_I’m insinuating you terminate your contract at twenty-one_. “No,” Wonwoo croaks. He swallows hard around the building pressure in his throat and steadies his gaze on Chan’s navel. Carefully holding Chan’s flanks in two hands, he says, “I just think you’d. Be a good choreographer. I really, um. Like seeing you dance.” 

Silence. Drip, drip, drip of water against shower tiles. The villa’s heater cuts off. 

“You’re such a bad liar,” Chan huffs. “I know you’re upset,” he brings his knuckles along Wonwoo’s cheekbone, down and across his jaw, just a gentle touch that leaves ripples of warmth in its wake. Wonwoo focuses on that touch rather than the acidic burn in his esophagus, traces Chan’s path with his mind. “But, things are better now. They’re getting better. I told Colours in the interview that I’ll never stop being sorry. I was wrong.” 

Wonwoo turns his head just enough to press his mouth to the top of Chan’s hand. Not a kiss, but a touch. He lets his eyes close. “You weren’t wrong. You’re allowed to be a young adult.” 

Chan hesitates at Wonwoo’s chin. “No,” he says, “you were right. I’m here because Colours care about me. I survive, because they—” 

“I was wrong.” Wonwoo doesn’t mean for his tone to come out sharp, cutting, but it does, and it quiets Chan instantly. He sucks in a breath and opens his eyes, swallowing down the apology to tell him, “I shouldn’t have said that, because it’s not true. I told you. You can choose. It’s your—” 

“I’m choosing.” 

Wonwoo tips his head up to find Chan’s gaze. His eyes follow the flat line of Chan’s lips, the way his jaw clenches and cheekbones deepen in thought. “Chan,” he breathes. “You don’t. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” 

Chan’s hand picks back up where it left off, following along Wonwoo’s jaw to the other side of his face. As his expression softens his eyebrows curve upwards, sharp eyes rounding; it’s beautiful, memorizing, and Wonwoo tries to cling to this, fingers scrabbling for purchase on Chan’s bare flanks, while everything else slips through his fingers—their love, their future, Wonwoo’s damned dreams that he knows now will never come to fruition. 

“I’m not,” Chan whispers, a secret between the two. He speaks to hide his words from the walls that want to close Wonwoo in. “You said I could choose. I’m choosing. I want to do this until I’m twenty-nine. Then longer, if they’ll let me.” 

There’s the tremor. There’s the burn, his lungs deflating, Wonwoo asking if he’ll choose him instead—please, god, if you’re choosing, then choose me—and Chan returning, _If your objective is to make me kill myself, it’s working_. Selfish, selfish fantasies, believing that Chan would mourn Wonwoo’s leaving and not his own career. Chan’s thought about it. This is what he wants. 

He’s chosen. 

Wonwoo kisses Chan’s navel. Chan cards his free hand through the hair on the back of Wonwoo’s head, stuttering out a breath, as Wonwoo’s kisses press harder, become wetter. He moves along the very soft hairs of Chan’s happy trail, where it’s growing back in, and then back up, up each rib and each space in-between until he can't strain any further. “Okay,” he murmurs to his skin. Pretty, pretty skin, waist darkening with Wonwoo-shaped bruises. He wishes they’d stay. That even if Wonwoo leaves one day, if Chan doesn’t come with him, at least there’ll be proof that he was once here. That Chan was once his. “Okay.” 

And maybe it’s retribution, karmic justice, the way Chan’s words knock days, hours, minutes off of the bomb planted inside Wonwoo’s chest. 

“Does it feel weird? Having a kid?” 

“Oh, yeah,” a pause to laugh. The line muffles briefly before his nasally voice dips in again, “I feel like a kid raising a kid. I’m so bad at disciplining her, because I remember when I was her age and my parents wouldn’t let _me_ have that second or third slice of cake.” 

Wonwoo lets himself laugh, a few tiny sounds. It’s cold out on the veranda, and he can hear Seungkwan shouting about something inside. They’re making lunch, probably doing a poor job at it half because neither can cook, half because it’s for show. A theatrical display of friendship. “You must drive Yeoreum-ssi insane.” 

“Without a doubt,” Minjun cackles. “She’s like, _oh you’re such a man; if we’re not on the same track she’s going to think of you as the fun parent and me as the mean one_! And she’s definitely right! It’s just hard. Yeoreumie is more conservative, y’know. Plays by the rules. And—you know me.” Residual chuckling. 

Wonwoo leans his head back on the wall of the villa. The wood is cold and sinks into his scalp and to his skull. Everywhere is cold, really, and he’s a dumbass wearing a short-sleeve in ten degree weather. “Does she know?” 

Thankfully, nothing between them has been lost; Minjun’s subsequent silence indicates that he understands what Wonwoo’s asking. There’s the brief creak of a door on Minjun’s side of the line, some light chatter, and then more silence. “Um,” Minjun starts. He elongates the word, similar to what he’s done when Wonwoo knew him ( _knew_ him), and that nostalgic tic brings a little burst of heat to Wonwoo’s gut. “No. You’re still the only—yeah. I mean. Other than my past—moments—with guys.” 

Interesting. Wonwoo thinks of being committed enough to somebody to marry and have their kid, yet continue to hold such a formative piece of himself from them. How alienating that must feel. If that’s what love is supposed to be, continuing to hide, to live in fear. “Oh.” 

“You? You told anyone?” Minjun falters. “Are you dating anyone? You, uh. Never answered that one message, so.” 

Wonwoo blinks up at the grey-blue sky. Clouds are rolling in, tinged dark and probably carrying some rain. There may be a shower or two before their departure tomorrow morning; good thing they had their beach day yesterday. “I have a friend here, um, he’s a choreographer. Only reason he knows is because he told me first. He’s dating a mutual friend. A guy.” 

Minjun makes a soft sound into the receiver. “Brave man.” 

"More than brave,” Wonwoo says, “reckless. We didn’t know each other that well when he started ranting to me about some ex-boyfriend of his. I could’ve been a homophobic dipshit for all he knew.” 

“Maybe he could tell you were too nice for that. You have a kinda calming thing about you.” 

Wonwoo laughs, rolls his eyes. “We’ve known each other for most of our lives, man. Of course you think I have a calm aura.” 

“I’m not the only one who says it. People that barely knew you said the same thing; I’m just the messenger.” 

“Alright, messenger, well, I don’t have a boyfriend or girlfriend, no.” He really contemplates his next words. It may not be true in the next week or month—but he wants to rebuild a friendship with Minjun. If—when—he loses Chan and Soonyoung once he moves to Busan, he’ll have to lean on him for support. So, “I’m kinda seeing someone, though. It’s—newish. I don’t want to say too much until it’s definite.” 

Thankfully, unlike Soonyoung and Mingyu, Minjun understands when to not push. He coos, “That’s great, Wonu,” and then leaves it at that. “I hope it works out.” 

“Thanks. Me, too.” He tugs aimlessly at the hem of his shirt, tugging it further down his torso. A breeze runs under the veranda and nips at his skin as if he’s not wearing it at all, and he shivers, adjusts. “How much longer until your break is over?” 

“Uh,” his voice briefly fades while he checks, “ten minutes. You?” 

Wonwoo chuckles. “I don’t have anything to do for a good two hours. Filming takes forever. They’re,” he turns around to squint in through the window, “cooking lunch together. It’s probably gonna go horribly and they’ll order food—which I’ll have to pick up.” From his vantage point, he can see Sooyeon leaning on a wall with her arms crossed, the camera crew standing in front of her and studying the LCDs. Everyone looks tense even as laughter and joyous clanging occurs beyond where Wownoo can see. 

“Busy,” Minjun says. “Have you checked out the job listings? No pressure.” 

“I have.” Wonwoo flops back into his seat and squints off at where the pool sits. There’s already some equipment sitting out by the lawn chairs in preparation for their night pool scene. Another moment where they have to scramble to find kind words to say to one another—Seungkwan to Chan more so than the inverse. Sooyeon has specific instruction from Park to cast Chan in as favorable a light as possible, Seungkwan being the best segue into a renewed reputation. “The one in Busan, um, the medical sales representative. I may consider that one. There’s two of them.” 

“Yeah,” Minjun can’t hide the shock to his tone for the life of him. Juvenile as it is, Wonwoo kinda enjoys subverting expectations. “Kim Dongha is the recruiter for both of those. He’s a great guy. I met him when I came in for my interview, actually.” 

“He knows about me?” 

“No doubt about it. I gave him your academic and professional history, so he knows what he’s getting into. He sounded interested in hearing from you. Again—no pressure. He’ll be waiting until the end of the year.” 

A month and a half to decide. That should be more than enough time; Wonwoo’s been contemplating switching jobs for _years_ . Things weren’t this complicated a few years ago, yeah, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t stopped dreaming about it. Being able to go to therapy, carve time out to visit friends, _maybe_ family. He just. He wanted Chan to be included in that life. 

And he won’t be. That’s a guarantee. 

“Is putting myself first supposed to be so fucking painful?” Wonwoo asks. Asks before he can think better of it, before he can say _okay, thanks_ and hang up. 

Minjun. Bless his fucking heart, Minjun takes every dip and mood with stride, answering, “Yeah,” without any lead-up questions. “It is. You’re not used to it. People make you feel shit about doing it, so you don’t see it as a positive thing. Fight that intuition.” 

Wonwoo knows he’ll sound like he’s crying if he responds, so he says nothing. 

“You’re thinking about Chan.” 

He sniffs, shivers against another breeze. 

“I’m probably the last person to be telling somebody to tell the truth,” he punctuates the statement with a wry laugh, “but maybe try to prep him first. Tell him you’re thinking about it. Ask how he feels. Like I said before—if he’s worth any weight he’ll understand. If he’s upset, well. He’s a kid. Kids don’t respond in mature ways sometimes.” 

“He’s not a kid. He’s—” Wonwoo falters. There’s no point going into this with him. “Alright. You’re right. I’ll think about it.” 

If the retort threw Minjun off, he doesn’t acknowledge it; instead, he uses a quiet tone to tell Wonwoo, “Don’t beat yourself up. Remember, this is for you. I’m here anytime if you need to talk it through some more; it’s alright to be repetitive. That’s how we work tough shit out.” 

“You sure you’re not a part-time therapist?” Wonwoo titters. 

“Don’t pretend we didn’t have to talk each other off cliffs all the fuckin’ time. And, I kinda feel like I am, the way I have to deal with hotshot doctor personalities every week at conferences. De-escalation is a big part of my job description.” 

“Disgusting,” Wonowo says. “I don’t think I could ever be a therapist. Faux therapist.” 

“It’s not that bad,” Minjun laughs. “But, um, like I said. Message me. I gotta go.” 

“Okay. Thanks, man. You’re,” Wonwoo lifts his eyes back to the sky, thinks, “really cool. For sticking around.” 

The line goes in and out from movement, the scrape of chair legs on tiles, and Minjun’s voice returns in a gentle, “You got me through the worst years of my life. Couldn’t have gotten past high school without you. Hey—maybe dinner. Next weekend. Let me know your availability; I’ll be around.” 

“Sure. Bye.” 

“Bye.” 

Wonwoo waits for Minjun to hang-up before he lowers his phone and stares at the homescreen. It’s of Seoul’s skyline during a sunset, a picture he’d snapped several years ago when he’d looked out his window and realized he had a perfect view of the city. Seldom is he in the dorms before sunfall. He doesn’t want to dwell on that. He dwells on his work emails instead, skimming the steady stream of schedules Jinho has added to Chan’s calendar. There remains a two-day gap after he returns from Jeju. For Chan’s sake, he hopes it remains open. He needs rest. 

Wonwoo taps into KaTalk, then opens the job listing for _Asan_ ’s Busan branch. He has time. Nothing has to happen right away. Besides, sending in the application doesn’t mean he’s sold on it; he can even go to the interview and it doesn’t mean he’ll accept the position. Nothing is definite. Chan… Chan deserves that conversation. Minjun’s right. He deserves that conversation, and Wonwoo shouldn’t be terrified of putting himself first. 

Rationally, that makes absolute sense. You have to prioritize your own happiness sometimes. And, in any other situation, Wonwoo would be on board. It’s just—it’s more complicated than that. Wonwoo loathes his job, but he loves Chan. If he prioritizes his own happiness, he not only loses Chan, but he leaves Chan in a shitty situation. A situation that Chan has made it clear he is choosing to remain in—but does that make it right? Does that make it right for Chan to remain as is simply because he wants to? And does it make it right for Wonwoo to abandon him? 

Wonwoo taps out of the application. That leaves him on his conversation thread with Minjun. He just got off the fucking phone with him, but. But, he types a message and sends it immediately, refusing to give his brain the time to catch up and beg him to stop. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

If I go, I’m abandoning him. 

He has no one that he can talk to here but me. Minjun. I’m scared. [12:49 p.m.]

Minjun isn’t going to answer right now. He’s working. That gives Wonwoo time to pretend he’s okay, everything’s okay. If only for today, for tomorrow, everything is _okay_ , Wonwoo. Continue to live in the moment, not in the future. You’ll ruin whatever good you have if you stress over what ifs. Eventuals. The facts are: Lee Chan trusts you. Lee Chan loves you. Be good for him, be good for yourself. Give him what he—and you—need until otherwise. Until the end. 

The end. Nothing good lasts forever, does it? Wonwoo has spent his entire life living moment to moment, miserable in-between. Sometimes miserable _during_. (Always miserable during.) What would be more miserable? Staying or going? 

His head hurts. Wonwoo stands up and enters the villa, taking the backstairs up to the second floor. It’s empty and quiet since everyone is downstairs working. He can hear their voices echo up along the high walls, Chan’s signature, boisterous laughter, Seungkwan begging, “Take it out of the oven, take it out, take it out, _Chan_ —!” Wonwoo pauses at his door to listen for a few seconds, filing another sound bite to his memories. Chan’s laughter when it’s partly genuine, partly artificial. Worlds colliding. 

And then he slips into his room and searches for those painkillers he popped last night. 

He makes the unfortunate discovery that he’s trembling too severely when he’s unzipping his carry-on luggage to find them. It’s a tricky feat, but after a few failed tries and spilling some pills on the floor, he shoves a mix of his benzodiazepines and the painkiller, sits on the floor with his back against his bed frame while he waits for saliva to build in his mouth, and then swallows them dry. 

A panic attack. It’s been building up overtime since early that morning, those anxious throbs that have his bones aching, and Wonwoo didn’t notice until now. He’d been able to keep it at bay, but recognizing this for what it is has him paying inordinate attention to every quiver of his limbs, to the way his breathing trembles on every exhale, every inhale. He’s honestly surprised this hadn’t happened earlier; traveling is prime time for his anxiety to get the best of him. 

Well. Wonwoo has taken the pills. If he sits and waits here, it’ll improve. Don’t focus on your inability to take proper breaths and you’ll be fine. Relax. _In. One, two, three. Hold. Out. Three, two, one_. 

Wonwoo doesn’t move from that spot for what feels like thirty-minutes but ends up being an hour and a half. He dozes off even, the sunlight that pours in from his windows and glass, balcony doors warming his skin while keeping the cold out. He stirs from slumber when he hears his bedroom door whine gently, then footsteps as they cross the floorboards. 

“Wonwoo hyung.” Chan. 

Wonwoo licks his dry lips and fixes his glasses on his nose-bridge, blinking his room into view. Chan comes to stand in front of him. “Mm?” he moans. 

“Why are you sleeping here?” Chan crouches down and his face comes into view, soft with laughter. “You have a bed right up there.” 

Wonwoo rubs his eyes. “Didn’ mean to. Filmin’ done?” 

“Yeah. Staff ordered in for lunch. Most of it is seafood, but I saved you some bulgogi. There’s rice, vegetables, and ddukbokki, too.” 

He reaches out, cupping a palm over Chan’s clothed knee. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “How are you?” 

Chan considers him wearily. “How am I? Fine? Why?” He covers Wonwoo’s hand with his own, and Wonwoo becomes preoccupied with how Chan’s barely obscures his own. Slender hands, short, thin fingers. 

“Not too sore?” 

“‘M fine. I’ll be better if you come eat.” 

How cute. Wonwoo meets his eyes and gives a sleepy smile. “You’re taking care of me?” 

“If I don’t,” Chan says, standing up; Wonwoo holds onto him as long as he can, until Chan’s knee straightens out and he can’t anymore, “who will? You’re the worst at keeping yourself fed. I ‘dunno how you built all that muscle.” 

Wonwoo stretches his limbs out and yawns. Smacking his mouth, he shuffles to his feet and says, “Me neither. I haven’t been to the gym in a minute.” 

“Don’t get skinny on me again,” Chan pats Wonwoo’s abs through his thin tee, feeling him flex under his touch, “it was scary.” 

“Why? You like me big?” Wonwoo wraps his fingers around Chan’s wrist to hold him there, right against his belly so he can feel the muscle tense and jump in response to his touch. Chan stares at where their skin meets, then drags his eyes up to Wonwoo’s, lashes fluttering. “Bigger than you? Or, strong enough to lift you?” 

“And if I do?” 

Wonwoo looks at Chan. Really looks at him, filing this away into his mind, too: Lee Chan, palm pressed to his abdomen, lids heavy and pink mouth wet. Lee Chan, hair overgrown, a chestnut brown, perfectly styled so it hangs over half of his forehead, the other half exposed. Tiny hoop earring in his ears, makeup light and natural, sweatshirt hiding that tight little body from viewers. He wants to see those bruises on his waist. Wants to file that away with every other memory. 

If he has to go, he doesn’t ever want to forget. 

“Then I’ll give you what you want,” Wonwoo mutters, taking a step closer. He shuffles forward until they’re centimeters from being chest-to-chest, using this new position to look down at Chan, emphasizing their height difference. As expected, the intimidation tactic works; Chan goes lax in his grip, shoulders dropping, chin tipping up to maintain eye contact. “You don’t have anything scheduled for the two days after we fly home.” 

“No?” 

“I wanna keep you in the collar. I’ll toss you around how you want it. Okay?” 

Chan doesn’t hesitate; he’s nodding, pink little tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “Yessir,” he whispers. 

Wonwoo moves his hand from Chan’s wrist to curl around the junction of Chan’s jaw and throat, holding firm enough that there’s an obvious pressure, but light enough to allow Chan flexibility to move. “Good,” he whispers in return, then folds over to press their mouths together. “Good boy.” 

He’s not going to let himself forget this. 

**Park Minjun**

You’re not abandoning him. You have your life, and he has his. Don’t keep yourself in hell so that you two can be in hell together. That’s not fair. 

You’re important, too wonu. 

Remember that. [3:51 p.m.] 

“What makes me sad is that people don’t know the real you. The you that’s behind the cameras,” Seungkwan says. He nudges Chan’s ankle with his toes underneath the water, and the two of them watch their distorted reflections cast thin and wavy along the pool. “You show your bubbly, fun personality for Colours, but there are more sensitive parts of yourself that they don’t get to see. The you I know.” 

Seungkwan allows a pause while they sit and avoid making direct eye contact. He takes a breath, lips parted on unspoken words, and then on the exhale he continues, “I want to stand on stage with you one day soon. Us going on tour together with our other labelmates. I want to collaborate on a future album. You’re a talented dongsaeng, and I value your input a lot.” 

“Thanks,” Chan squeaks. He subtly keeps his mouth tipped towards the mic clipped to his neckline to make sure he’s heard. “I want to go on tour with you, too. You’ve always been a good friend to me, Seungkwan hyung. I couldn’t have made it this far without you.” 

“You’ve helped me, too,” Seungkwan places a hand on Chan’s shoulder, curling his fingers around the joint—and now they meet gazes, their pupils light with the reflection of the moon, fractionated light against pool water. “Boosadans don’t know how many times you’ve comforted me when I was lonely or afraid of not meeting expectations,” a smile spreads across his face, curving his cherubic cheeks into his eyes, “or the lyrics you’ve helped me write, the late-night phone calls you had with me when I was in the studio worried about my voice quality. Thank you. Let’s work hard together.”

“No matter what happens, I’ll be here for you,” Chan says. “Same to Colours. No matter where I go or what I do one, five, ten years from now, I want them to know they can lean on me for comfort. I want to take care of them the way they’ve taken care of me.” 

Seungkwan pulls him into his side by an arm draped over his shoulder, and Chan goes pliantly, nuzzling his cheek into Seungkwan’s chest. “That’s the kind of person you are. Giving, selfless. Colours know your heart. I want them to know your heart the way I do, too.” 

“Hold position,” Sooyeon shouts from across the pool, well out of shot. “Hold, hold, hold, and… cut. Good job, boys.” 

There’s a moment of polite clapping and shuffling of camera crew members, red lights fading to grey. Seungkwan and Chan sit up off of one another; Seungkwan gives Chan one more shoulder-squeeze before wiggling backwards and getting his feet up out of the water. Chan’s eyes scan the organized chaos, listening to how their voices and barked instructions echo over the property, out over Seogwipo-si; then, their final destination, Chan locks eyes with Wonwoo. 

Wonwoo, who’s leaning back on a lawn chair, a tiny table between his and Sunye’s where their tea mugs are resting. He’s searching for an affirming smile, maybe. A quiet message that tells him he’s done the right thing, said the correct words. If his brief conversation was convincing enough, if Sooyeon will be able to splice it with a soulful BGM and B-rolls of their entire trip spent together and create something heart-wrenching. If he’ll be able to stand on that stage again, return to the Lee Chan the country wants him to be. 

And, it will. Wonwoo is convinced that this is the ticket to heal what’s been broken. It’ll mend, and there’ll forever be a scar that haunts Chan for the rest of his career—but he’ll make a full recovery. 

Wonwoo wants that for him. His happiness first, always. 

(Why, then, can’t he give the reassuring smile that Chan chases. Why does it feel like as Chan mends, he’s breaking?)

“That was perfect,” Sunye says. She sits up from the chair, and then stands, stretching. “Great end to the night. We’re done early, huh?” 

Wonwoo forces himself to look up at her, where her hair is piled on top of her head again, loose strands framing her tiny face. “Looks like it. Heading to bed?” 

“After I let Seungkwan know what we’re doing tomorrow, yeah,” Sunye says. She watches as Sooyeon speaks to Chan and Seungkwan at the pool ledge, their faces serious, stress lines emphasized in the poor lighting. “And after she’s done talking to them. I think they have to continue filming up until we arrive at the airport. Bonus footage. Lemme ask.” 

She walks off, bare feet on the grass. Wonwoo doesn’t particularly care—he does as he’s told when he’s told to do it—but he doesn’t bother. Night’s complete. Wonwoo doesn’t have any other objective to cross off his list. He allows this minute to splay along the length of his chair, to categorize yet another memory he refuses to lose: Chan, shins and feet damp from waddling in the pool, the sharp line of his jaw accentuated as he smiles tight-lipped and nods alone to what Sooyeon is explaining to him. His thick hair styled to sit out of his face. His eyebrows, light and soft like a feather, lengthened by a matching eyebrow pencil. Strong, lean arms, the sway of his hips and ass. 

And then Wonwoo gets up, retrieves his mug, and stumbles into the villa through the backdoors. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

I sent in applications for the two Busan listings. [10:02 p.m.] 

Wonwoo kisses Chan like he misses him. Chan must sense it, faltering as Wonwoo snatches him by the forearm and drags him onto the bed with him, shoving him onto his back so he can lean over and sink his tongue between his parted lips. As usual, Chan snuck into his room a few minutes after midnight, and Wonwoo waited up until he heard the footsteps stop by his bedside and the drapes shifted. Then, he rolled into action, manhandling Chan past the soft, yellow drapes and onto the bed with him. 

Chan gasps into his mouth, hands scrabbling for purchase on Wonwoo’s shoulders. He squirms under Wonwoo’s hold until Wonwoo presses more of his weight onto him and forces him to stay still. There’s more to catalogue—the warmth of Chan’s body against his; the tiny noises Chan emits when he’s being kissed that he may not even realize he’s making; how sweet Chan’s mouth tastes, how it yields to Wonwoo no matter how gentle or rough he’s treating it. Like every muscle in Chan’s body understands that it belongs to Wonwoo. 

Wonwoo kisses him. And kisses him. And continues for as long Chan allows him. Eventually Chan grows restless, hips bucking up against Wonwoo’s as best as it can pinned to the mattress; this Wonwoo allows, and soon their bodies oscillate against one another, one of Wonwoo’s thighs in-between Chan’s so he can rut his swelling cock against Chan as Chan does the same. 

The air becomes warm and sticky with their combined breaths, how their skin heats with movement. Wonwoo shoves Chan’s shirt up to under his armpits, then separates their mouths long enough to tug it off and over the side of the bed. Then he’s tugging his own off and catching Chan’s mouth once more, sucking on his bottom lip and soothing it with tongue. Chan’s mouth hangs open while he pants, lashes fluttering, so pretty and demure in contrast to how he fucks up against Wonwoo, fingers trying to cover every centimeter of exposed skin. 

Wonwoo steals his air with more kisses. He sucks Chan’s tongue and listens to him whimper, slides over it to lap at the roof of his mouth and groans when Chan’s breath and body trembles. The way he responds to every little touch drives Wonwoo insane. It’s one of his favorite parts about having Chan—basking in how affected Chan becomes. He separates their mouths and watches Chan gasp, files the sight of the tendons in Chan’s neck sticking out through his skin with every heave. 

“Hyung?” Chan exhales. His hands hold lightly onto Wonwoo’s waist; chestnut brown hair colors Wownoo’s pillow in streaks as he lies back on it, chin tipped upwards. 

Wonwoo leans in and kisses his chin. Slow, wet. “Let’s stay like this tonight. Can we?” Another, careful kiss to Chan’s chin, then right underneath his bottom lip. 

“Not in the mood?” Chan slides his hand up and down Wonwoo’s back, creating a pattern that has Wonwoo’s eyes going heavy. 

“I am,” he answers truthfully. He’ll always be in the mood for Chan. But, “I’m in the mood to just. Sleep with you tonight. Can we do that?” He rests half of his weight on Chan’s body, the other half onto the bed, and tucks his head underneath Chan’s chin while Chan continues that pattern along Wonwoo’s skin. How do such thin fingers bring so much comfort? (Wonwoo especially doesn’t want to forget this.) 

Chan’s breaths stir the hair on the crown of Wonwoo’s head. He relaxes beneath Wonwoo’s larger body, shifting to get comfortable. “We can,” he says, albeit tentative. It’s coming to bite Wonwoo in the ass, how perceptive Chan can be, attuned to any change in his behavior. Chan doesn’t ask anymore questions, though, and that leaves the open space for Wonwoo to switch courses. 

He closes his eyes, nuzzles further into Chan, willing their skin to mold together in the heat and moisture. “How was filming today? The scene at the pool?” 

“Mm,” Chan hums, thinking, “fine. Tiring.” He curls into Wonwoo, fingers tracing where Wonwoo’s shoulder blades jut out of skin, where muscle shifts to make room. “It’s hard t’be personal when there’s so many people watching. I hope I came across genuine.” 

“You did,” Wonwoo mumbles, half-asleep. He can’t wait to get back to the dorms, only so that he doesn’t have to wake Chan up later to return to his own room. They’ll be able to spend the entire night together. They won’t have to get up at four a.m. for schedules. “You’re a natural, Chan. Always have been.” 

“I hope.” 

“You are.” 

Chan rests his hand on the middle of Wonwoo’s back. “Thanks.” Then, softer, “Love you.” 

Wonwoo’s next breath introduces ash to his lungs. This will be the most difficult memory to cling to—Chan’s inflection when he leaves himself vulnerable. 

“Love you, too,” Wonwoo says. 

**Park Minjun**

Proud of you. 

This is a good thing. I promise. [11:47 p.m.] 

Their journey home is as tumultuous as the journey to Jeju. Lots of noise, movement, sensory overload. Wonwoo takes his medication and gulps it down with a swig of water, and then stays as far from the eye of the storm until he can feel it working its magic. 

He does what he does best and keeps quiet while they record on the drive to the airport. He’s quiet as they have their final chat in the van outside of arrivals— _I hope we can do this again soon. It was great spending time with you and being able to be myself_ —and even once the cameras cut off for the final time since they began filming, Wonwoo says nothing. He carries Chan’s luggage for him as well as his own and remains off to the side as Chan gets his pictures taken by photographers that were awaiting their presence. They perform the entire routine of baggage check-in, waiting for the flight a few seats away from one another, and boarding. 

Wonwoo sends a message to Minjun before he loses his wifi connection, then tugs a sleep mask on and tries to meditate during take-off. _Thank you, I’m trying to see it as a good thing, too._

He receives a message from Minjun once they’ve landed in Seoul an hour later, and Wonwoo is standing by the conveyor belts waiting for Chan’s and his own belongings. _You have to retrain your brain. That’s the hard part, but it’s worth it._ Wonwoo hates how Minjun makes sense. He doesn’t stop reacting rationally, saying the right things, piecing sentences together in pivotal ways. It’s equally annoying and inspiring. 

Wonwoo needs to learn. ‘Retrain his brain.’ 

_Will you be in the city Friday or Saturday next week? I know you said day-trip but idk if that means the weekend._ He types, then shoves his phone into his jacket pocket to go retrieve Chan’s luggage. 

_I check into my hotel Friday. Saturday after 6pm I plan to leave, but if you can do dinner then, I’ll stay. There’s a restaurant on the ground floor. Maybe we can sit at the bar. Up to you_. 

veryone is exhausted when they return to the dormitories. Wonwoo waits until he and Chan are in the privacy of their foyer, door lock beep-whirring behind them, before kissing Chan’s temple and taking his luggage from him. “Go sleep. I’ll unpack.” 

Chan sluggishly kicks off his sneakers, then fixes them to sit on the shoe rack, in his cubicle. He replaces them with his house slippers and tugs those on. “I wanna help,” he says, “it’s a lot to do.” 

Wonwoo hooks Chan’s bag over his shoulder, opposite of the other one. “This is my job,” he laughs, “don’t worry. You need rest way more than I do. Busy past three days.” 

He seems too tired to argue anymore. Admitting silent defeat, Chan gives a nod and shuffles off, making a direct trip to Wonwoo’s bedroom. And—okay. Wonwoo expected him to nap in his own room; he knows Chan prefers to be alone sometimes, and he’s been forced to socialize constantly for the past week. But. He went to their room. _Their_ room. 

Fuck, Wonwoo, relax. Now’s not the time. Wonwoo runs a frustrated hand through his mop of hair, shakes his fringe from where it’s trapped behind his frames, and then starts working. First things first: Wonwoo dumps the bags in the common space. He places all their kitchen things back in their corresponding pantries—the tea bags he brought, their mugs, assorted sauces he likes to dab onto his food. Then, he sits in the common room and separates Chan’s belongings from what he wore and didn’t wear, two piles. 

Wonwoo folds the clean clothes. He returns the shoes to the foyer. He separates the soiled clothes (towels) by color and starts a cycle in the washing machine. Stacks the toiletries to place in their bathrooms. Something, anything, to busy himself, pass the time by. It’s two hours in once the only objective he has left is to finish washing their clothes and hang the ones that are drying. He lets the machine continue to cycle through as he gets to chopping up some vegetables to stir-fry and pair with the leftover tofu. He sits the tofu out to thaw from the freezer. Reads and responds to Minjun’s message— _sounds great; I think Saturday for dinner works best for me_ —and then lets Soonyoung know he’s back in town. 

He simmers some chopped onions, garlic, cucumber, green and yellow pepper, and cilantro in a soy sauce mix he whipped together. Swirls in some black pepper, touch of red flakes, ssamjang, chilli powder, baking powder. Wait for most of the liquid to curdle into something more viscous, the vegetables staining brown from absorbing it, and then portions out two plates of food. He puts the leftovers in the fridge. 

Wonwoo covers the plates with bowls to trap the heat in and keep out any bugs. Chan is still a lump underneath his (their) duvet when he tiptoes to grab his home-clothes and moves on to his bathroom. 

The hot shower leaves him more exhausted than hungry. It’s near three p.m. when he goes _fuck it_ , and crawls under the duvet with Chan, shaking him awake by his shoulder. “Trade spots with me,” he whispers to a disoriented, grimacing Chan, “I made lunch. Eat before it gets cold.” Chan clings to him and mumbles something unintelligible. “Chan,” he chuckles, “food. Go eat. You slept for a few hours now.” 

“Don’t wanna get up,” Chan whines into his chest. “You’re so warm, hyung.” 

“And your food is getting cold. You only had crackers and coffee for breakfast; shoo.” 

“Isn’t that the point? I have another 2kg to lose, anyway. Let me sleep with you. Thought you wanted to sleep together.” 

Ugh. Wonwoo’s losing this duel, and fast. He gives Chan’s nape a little massage, murmurs, “Of course I do. But, this isn’t about me. It’s about you.” 

“It’s about _us._ ” Chan leans his head back so he can blink drowsy eyes up at Wonwoo, who’s halfway to slumber as they speak. “You want to sleep with me and I want to stay. So—there. Goodnight.” And then, with finality, he buries his face in Wonwoo’s armpit, slips his leg in-between Wonwoo’s, and goes still. 

He… can’t argue with that. “About us,” Wonwoo parrots in a slur. It sounds wrong. Chan says it with genuity, but it reaches Wonwoo’s ears in an off-beat tempo. His mind tries and fails to make sense of that. Us. He’s too exhausted to decipher this puzzle. “Alright. Goodnight.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t dream. It’s as if his own brain doesn’t want to bother with the power it requires to do so. Everything fizzes out quickly and the only sensation that remains is the purr of Chan’s warm body pressed to his. That’s what he chases for the few hours he’s asleep, that constant weight against him. He stirrs a little when it’s gone, the mattress creaking and then lifting, but the trip has left him so worn-out that he redrifts within one minute. 

Mint and lavender clings to his sheets. 

The morning brings a calm, renewed disposition. Wonwoo’s internal alarm clock taps him awake at seven a.m., when the sun has just begun to climb past the skyline and sneak peeks into his room through the blinds. The only sign that Chan is in bed with him is a mess of hair littered across his second pillow and limbs that create knots with his own; Chan’s body is otherwise submerged in the blankets, rock-still. (To fall asleep and wake up with the aroma of tea leaves is an experience Wonwoo will cherish the most.) 

No schedules today. Five days until Saturday. Wonwoo manages to free himself from Chan jail and stumble into the bathroom without alerting him, and he takes his time washing his face and brushing his teeth. Well—if he’s up, he wants to do something. 

He and Chan haven’t been able to have a full day to themselves since they began this… arrangement. If not tomorrow, today is the perfect opportunity to spend it co-existing. Eating breakfast together, reading books, watching television and dozing off piled on the couch—things lovers do. Wonwoo wants to be Chan’s lover, for as long as he’ll allow him. 

For as long as Wonwoo will allow. It’s difficult to admit that, especially with the sent job applications hanging over his head, with the knowledge that Chan has chosen his career over everything else. It’s difficult to admit that Wonwoo wants more than he’s been given, selfish and pretending he wasn’t. Isn’t. 

Today, though. Today, he wants to be lovers. 

Wonwoo goes into the kitchen and starts on breakfast. Something light since Chan does, unfortunately, have to diet. Fresh fruit, coffee with vanilla swirled in, galbitang, water. He sets their little coffee table in the common space and turns the television on to the morning news. Checking his phone while he waits is probably a good idea, but… Wonwoo doesn’t want to worry about work right now. Whatever anyone has to say, it’ll be valid up to tomorrow morning. He’ll check then. 

He’s sitting on the rug taking sips of his coffee when there’s a light patter of feet on the heated floorboards; Chan ambles around the couch, rubbing his eyes with a tiny fist. “Hy’ng? Y’left me.” 

His hair is in shambles. Wonwoo’s sleepshirt hangs off of him—and he’s also wearing his sweatpants, guessing by the way Chan has it tied firmly to his waist so it won’t trip him up. So, so cute. Wonwoo almost forgets he’s being spoken to until Chan blinks at him, slow and heavy-lidded, his lips pink and pouted. “Sorry,” Wonwoo rasps, “I, um—cooked. Breakfast.” 

Chan glances down at the table as if noticing it for the first time. He drinks in the two set plates and banchan bowls, the soup, their drinks, then considers Wonwoo again, looking more awake than he did a few seconds ago. “Oh,” he says, “okay. Thank you.” 

“Good morning.” Wonwoo watches him settle down across the table. 

“Good morning,” Chan says. He picks up his steel chopsticks and pops a slice of mango into his mouth. “Still mad you left me in bed, but I’ll forgive you for now. While I’m eating.” 

“You’ll be mad again when you’re done?” Wonwoo laughs, taking a sip from his coffee mug. 

Chan finishes chewing before he answers, “Yup.” 

“That’s okay. You’re adorable when you’re mad.” Also _scary_ , but Chan is cute no matter what he does, so it’s not a _lie_. It’s possible Wonwoo is the only person on planet earth that believes that, though. 

He doesn’t earn a response other than a smirk and hum before Chan replaces the chopsticks with a soup spoon and scoops up some of the galbitang. 

They eat in relative silence. The television speaks for them, droning on about dropping temperatures and petty crime happenings. Chan has one hand scrolling through his phone while his other feeds him the soup. Wonwoo chews without tasting for a few minutes until the anticipation has his hands trembling around his chopsticks. 

“Um,” he starts, glancing up from his fingers to find Chan staring at him from over his phone, “so. I wanted to. Do something.” 

“Do something,” Chan repeats. “Fuck me on the couch?” 

Wonwoo chokes on his coffee, which isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world since it’s _hot_ and Wonwoo has the _tremors_. Chan sputters, then laughs at his misery as he puts his mug down and grabs some napkins to clean his chin with. “No,” he gasps, “not—not now. There are no schedules today, and I—I’m just—” 

“Take your time,” Chan says, amused. Deciding that this is more entertaining than whatever he was looking at, he drops his phone in his lap. “I don’t have anywhere to be.” 

He loses the soiled napkin somewhere on the table. “Date. I want to, like,” he timidly meets Chan’s gaze again, “do something. With you. We can’t really date _outside_ , but…” 

“Are you asking me on a date, Wonwoo hyung?” Chan’s amused grin turns a little devious, and somehow Wonwoo feels like he’s a cornered animal being played with before the predator takes its first bite. “You can fuck me so hard I lose feeling in my legs but can’t ask me on a date?” 

Thankfully, when Wonwoo sputters again there’s no hot coffee to give him 1st degree burns. “Wait—you lost feeling in your legs?” 

“I’m being hyperbolic.” Chan reaches out across the table and takes some of Wonwoo’s fingers in his own. Wonwoo watches their hands entwine before returning to find Chan’s eyes softening. “I wanna hear you say it. The full question.” 

Ignoring how crudely it was stated, Chan’s right. He’s fucked Chan several times now, had him tied up, collared, begging. Asking a simple question should be easier than this. Allegedly. But, those are when they’re in a scene, when Wonwoo can separate his public self from the desires he’s explored while in bed. Here, Wonwoo has no disguise. Chan’s fingers between his are brands that melt that shell from his skin, and the words that he speaks aren’t toggled to an invisible clause. _Thoughts spoken during this scene are not thoughts that will be carried out beyond the parameters of this room_. 

“Will you go on a date with me? There’s,” he swallows, eyes flickering around, “I want to watch a movie with you. And—and I have this book that I, um, I really liked it. We can read together, and maybe—maybe if you have a movie or book you like we can do that, too?” When his eyes refocus, he finds Chan watching him intently, unmoving, their palms molded and frozen on the table. “I want this to be our day. I want everyday to be our day.” 

Chan’s fingers twitch. A smile quirks at the corner of his mouth before it’s placated, and Chan laughs quietly. “You’re getting sweaty.” 

“I—know. I have anxiety,” Wonwoo gives a self-deprecating smile and averts his eyes, free hand shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And you’re kinda unreadable sometimes.” 

“We’ll have to change that,” Chan says. He tightens his grip, head twisting so he can find Wonwoo’s gaze again. “I want everyday to be our day, too. Let’s watch the movie. I’ll read the book, but I don’t have one of my own to show you—sorry. Not a reader.” 

Wonwoo tries not to look as stupidly happy and in love as he feels. “That’s fine, I can, like. I’ll read to you.” 

“I may fall asleep.” 

“That’s okay, too. As long as you fall asleep on the couch with me.” 

Chan laughs. His teeth are large and white, gums the same pink as his lips. Disastrously pretty. “Done and done. Let’s finish eating so we can have our date.” He lets go of Wonwoo’s hands and returns to his coffee, now lukewarm and drinkable. 

"It’s already started,” Wonwoo mumbles, but obeys and returns to his own food. 

They put the dishes away together after breakfast. Wonwoo takes the moment to give Chan a good morning kiss that he has to fight away a few minutes later when they get too into it and lose focus. “Just a little more, hyung, c’mon,” Chan gasps, tugging Wonwoo to fold over and kiss him some more. Wonwoo allows Chan to lick needily at his slack mouth for a few seconds before dragging his body rod-straight and leaning away. 

“Dishes,” Wonwoo stutters. He hopes his erection isn’t tenting his sweats, shuffling forward to hide below his hips against the sink ledge. “Dry this for me, please,” he hands off a banchan bowl he’d rinsed off. Chan whines some more, then does as he’s told once it’s obvious Wonwoo refuses to give in. 

He brews another pot of coffee for the two of them. They place their fresh mugs on the coffee table and sit pressed thigh-to-thigh on the couch while Wonwoo flicks through his movie streaming app and finds the one. “I’ve wanted to watch this for a while but never had the chance,” Wonwoo says. Chan has his cheek pressed to his shoulder, a blanket spread over both of their legs. “It was met with great reception.” 

Chan scans the summary as Wonwoo scrolls. “Looks sad,” he says, “you like sad movies?” 

“I like good movies,” Wonwoo amends. “If they’re sad, that’s a bonus.” 

Wonwoo starts the movie, then stands up to shut off the lights. Since it’s day, the room doesn’t get very dark. Chan reassumes their position once Wonwoo plops onto the couch again, and their hands find one another under the blanket, sitting on Wonwoo’s lap. _Jigeum Mannareo Gabmida_ , comes up on the title screen, and soon they’re absorbed in a world that isn’t theirs—a husband that lost his wife, a son that he takes care of in her absence. A gorgeous film about family and the strength that they provide. 

Wonwoo is pleased to say that not a single tear slips by the end of the two-plus hours. He can feel his face burning up, throat filling with pressure, but he manages. Chan hasn’t either, but he can hear the strain in his voice when he says, “That was—sad. Hope your book is happier.” 

“Happier, sure,” Wonwoo’s own voice strains. The room darkens as the ending credits roll down a black screen. “It’s a poetry book. Do you know Jung Kutbyol-nim?” The blank look he receives in lieu of an answer says enough. “She’s not _extremely_ well-known, but I like her work. I got some of them compiled when I was in university. One sec.” 

He flicks the lights on and shuts off the television. His book collection is buried somewhere behind his racks of clothes, but the thin book is exactly where he left it, sitting on top of a stack. Its spine is well-worn, pages curled and a gentle brown from age. It’s been nearly a decade since he’s had it. _Rising Tide_ he’d had printed on the cover. The title of one of his favorite poems, a poem that stuck to his tacky heart when he’d read it for the first time, alone in his Hanyang dormitory and fresh from a breakup. 

Wonwoo reads that to Chan first. They make a thin couch work for two, Chan more than halfway on top of Wonwoo with the blanket draped over them, cheek pressed to his chest as Wonwoo rests his on the arm. Chan’s eyes follow along as he murmurs, “ _At night, just barely / two boats slide in, / lowering their anchors at the port; / two naked boats / lie side by side / touching each other’s wounds / We are safe—we are fortunate, oh / to see the ocean calming down._ ” 

“You said they’re happier,” Chan mumbles. His voice vibrates his and Wonwoo’s chest the same. 

“Is this not happier? Two naked boats that are safer together, healing one another,” Wonwoo says. 

“I guess. Just—still sad somehow.” 

Wonwoo turns the page. “I like to see it as hopeful. Kutbyol-nim gave me a lot of comfort when I was around your age.” 

“You make yourself sound ancient.” 

“It’s true. It was—shit—a decade ago that I had this book binded. Some nights I’d go search for poets on the internet and put together my favorites. Here’s another— _Stubborn_ .” He starts to read, paying more emphasis on its middle and end, “ _All the animals in the world / build their homes to fit their bodies, / covering their bodies with roofs / and building the walls with their bodies / They build them as their bodies wish / and as their bodies remember / Today I also build a home, but I bring in more than I need, / expanding one more square foot; how appalling it must be, to witness how I live_.” 

“ _Stubborn_ ,” Chan reads. “I wonder why she decided on that rather than something like _Selfish_.” 

“I think,” Wonwoo starts, then pauses to consider his next words, “stubborn is because she understands it’s unnecessary or excessive, but she takes in excess anyway. I ‘dunno. I apply it to how I think or live. Me building my life to cater to my needs, not my desires. Not listening to reason.” 

Chan doesn’t respond, so they sit in it. The aircon whirrs every few minutes, and there’s the muted noise of the refrigerator humming. Chan wiggles into a more comfortable position, and then says, “I wish I could create words like this. I’m not really well-spoken.” 

“You are. Your speeches hold meaning for Colours; I’ve seen their responses online. Besides—you create art with your dancing, your singing. Non-verbal poetry.” 

“I want to do more song-writing,” Chan says. “If they’ll give me the greenlight, I want more creative say for my next album. Or, or if they can give me lessons on writing, I can write music for any future EPs.” 

“I ‘dunno about lessons, but I can lend you some of my poetry books,” Wonwoo says. “You can read them in-between schedules and try to learn that way? Poetry is music without a backtrack, I think.” 

Chan lifts a hand and turns the page for Wonwoo, eyes skimming the next two poems. “That’s a good way of putting it. Have you ever written any?” 

Wonwoo glances at the crown of Chan’s head. “Poetry?” 

“Yeah. Anything.” 

“A little. I. I thought about being a poet or a writer for a minute. It was a pipe dream, because my parents would’ve burned the house down if I pursued that,” he smiles wryly even if Chan can’t see it, “but, uh—yeah. I wrote on paper, though, so they’re all gone in the trash somewhere.” 

“Damn,” Chan twists his face to look at Wonwoo, his breath hitting his chin, “you should’ve kept them! Why did you throw them away?” 

He shrugs as best he can squished under another person. “I was insecure about my writing and didn’t want my anyone to read them. In hindsight, it was a dumb decision, because it _would’ve_ been nice to remember how I felt back then.” _I don’t think it’s any different than I feel now._ “But, um. Some were sappy, some sad. Some both.” 

Chan hums, blinking off in thought. “Would you call yourself a romantic? You strike me as one.” 

“Too much for my own good, yeah,” Wonwoo laughs. “You?” 

Chan is quiet for a few seconds. Wonwoo thinks maybe he hasn’t heard him when nothing comes by the ten-second mark, but finally Chan makes a breath and then, tone softer, says, “I hadn’t thought about it. I’ve never really thought about love. Before—you. I always said that my first love was performing.” 

Wonwoo nods his understanding once he’s gotten past the _before you_. “Yeah. Makes sense.” 

“Then I actually fell in love.” Chan sits up, one elbow propping him up, and Wonwoo doesn't have to second-guess it when he reaches out to brush his fringe out of his eyes. “Now I know that,” he falters, thinking, “it’s different. It feels different. Like, I love my little brother, but it’s not the same love I have for my mom. Y’know?” 

“I know.” 

“Performance is my best friend,” he continues, “but it’s not the same kind of love.” He meets Wonwoo’s gentle stare. “Have you? Been in love before me?” 

Wonwoo has to think about that. Which strikes him as unusual—because he _has_ been in love before, and he didn’t think he’d ever arrive to a day that he didn’t automatically think about her whenever prompted. It wasn’t anything significant, but to a hopeless romantic with a bad history where it came to dating, that half-year was the highlight of his life. 

“In my second year at Hanyang,” he starts, “I was in love, yeah. Ahn Haru. It’s…” He wiggles to sit up far enough to where the couch arm digs into the middle of his back, and Chan shuffles aside so he can change positions. Chan blinks up at him, waiting. “Every type of love is different. Even romantic love. The way I loved her isn’t the way I love you.” 

Chan gives a curious quirk of both eyebrows. 

“Loving her felt very… frantic. Like if I didn’t show it as blatantly as I could, it didn’t count. She didn’t make me feel like I had to do grandiose actions to prove my love, but—it was a problem with me. I wanted the whole world to know I was finally in love; _I know what it’s like, finally!_ Like that.” He laughs, shrugs shyly. “I was nowhere near as mature as you when I was in my early twenties. I saw it as another goal to reach, not something to really _enjoy_.” 

“And with me?” Chan asks. “What’s changed?” 

“Getting older,” Wonwoo says. “Partly. I’m not as frantic about showing everyone how much I’m in love. Though I wish I could do more. In public. With you. Uh,” he laughs, wiggles around, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “But, um. Being in love with you was more gradual. And, I knew way more about you than I did her before I realized it.” 

Chan rests his head on Wonwoo’s lap. He takes the poem book from Wonwoo’s loose grip, and Wonwoo lets him. “I think I was eighteen when I fell in love with you. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I knew it felt different than the way I loved my family. And different from a crush. I figured it out that night you let me stay in bed with you. The one before my twentieth.” 

The night he wiped the makeup off of him. When he told him it was okay to move on. Pretended. Wonwoo remembers. He’ll never forget that night, when Chan stole another piece of his soul, gaze boring as he insisted he’d never give up on his dream. A passion unparalleled, the storm that eats everything in its wake. Wonwoo got sucked up in it, too. “Oh,” Wonwoo breathes. “I had no idea.” 

“You’re hard not to like,” Chan says to a random page in the poetry book, “you were nice to me from the day we met.” 

Wonwoo lets that permeate the air. Chan’s words sink in through his skin, settle into his bones. His hand finds Chan’s hair, and he threads trembling fingers through them, watching each lock cascade over his skin like a waterfall. 

“There’s a poem,” he says, “by Kim Chunsu-nim. It’s short but poignant: _We all long to be something. / You, to me, and I, to you, / long to become a gaze that won’t be forgotten_. I always thought it described me pretty well.” He looks down at whatever of Chan’s face he can see—his nose, his parted mouth, his fringe. “That night, I thought it described you pretty well, too.” 

Chan lets the book hang in his hand. He shifts around so he can look into Wonwoo’s eyes. Wonwoo pulls his hair out from his face with a palm, smiles. “It’s pretty.” 

_You’re pretty_. 

“I like it,” Chan sits up, and quickly they’re face-to-face, “I want to be yours.” 

Those eyes. Sharp and round, always changing shapes, feeling. This is a gaze Wonwoo won’t forget. “I want to have you,” Wonwoo cradles his jaw, easing him closer until they’re sharing one breath, “I want you to have me.” 

“I want you,” Chan mutters, eyes glued to Wonwoo’s mouth, his own parted. “All of you.” 

He wanted to wait. Finish the book, maybe read another one, nap, have lunch. Chan isn’t making this easy, and Wonwoo is a weak man. “I’m so lucky,” his voice oscillates in the wave of his emotion, “Channie.” Of course it’s too good to be true—falling in love with Lee Chan and Lee Chan loving him back. Dating, those matching rings, a Seoul or Busan skyrise that they share. 

It’s all refracted light and hot air that has the road glitter as if it’s paved in gold. 

Wonwoo stands up off of the couch before Chan can close the gap between their lips. Chan tries to say something, but it’s trapped in his throat when Wonwoo scoops him into his arms and carries him out of the common space. He clings to Wonwoo’s shoulders and watches where they’re headed, saying nothing while they enter their room and Wonwoo deposits him on their bed. 

“Lunch after,” Wonwoo says, crawling on after him, “I’ll start on lunch. First—” He kisses Chan. Chan goes pliantly, lowering onto his back as Wonwoo shifts further over him, following that sweet mouth. 

“Hyung,” Chan whines, moaning high when Wonwoo sucks his tongue, moves on to nibble at his lip, “hyung.” 

“Mm?” Wonwoo gives several, long pecks, each wet and longer than the previous. “Tell hyung what you want.” He slides a hand underneath Chan’s oversized sleepshirt, tracing over his navel, then up to where his pecs separate. He cups one, groping, relishing in how the muscle jumps under his touch. 

Chan gets lost in the kisses, meeting each with his own, before he realizes he’s been asked to do something. He tugs at Wonwoo’s shirt. “Off. Get naked.” 

“You, too.” 

They reluctantly separate to kick their shirts, sweats, and briefs off. Then Wonwoo is pressing their chests and hips together, holding Chan’s jaw open as he drinks from him, lapping his moans and sighs. If he tries hard enough, maybe he can mold their skin together, combine their shells so no one—or nothing—can sliver in-between. 

He’d promised to keep Chan in the collar, toss him around however he wants it, but. But, that isn’t what Wonwoo wants. Not today. He wants to take his time, languidly explore Chan’s mouth, memorize the warmth, trace paths all over Chan’s body until it’s all he can see: phantom lines colored in Wonwoo’s love. A possession that no one will see but him, hundreds of kilometers away, on every flatscreen, window shop, advertisement. _Wonwoo was once here._

That’s what he does. Wonwoo ignores the antsy squirms of Chan’s limbs and torso as he paints his skin with his kisses. He spreads Chan’s thighs and kisses the tender insides as he works Chan open with two fingers. Three fingers. Plenty of lube, plenty of time to adjust to his long, slender fingers. Wonwoo basks in the quiver and jolts of Chan’s body beneath him, sighing and rutting into the mattress while Chan gasps and begs above him. 

“I’m gonna come if you kuh-keep that up,” Chan whines. Despite his protests, he fucks his hips down in time with Wonwoo’s slow, rhythmic thrusts. Wonwoo crooks his fingers just right, applying pressure to Chan’s prostate that has his next inhale stutter and cut short. “Really—hyung— _uhn_ , please—” 

“Then come,” Wonwoo says to Chan’s left inner thigh. He lands a heavy kiss there, then mouths, teases with teeth. “Come for me, Channie. You’ll be nice and loose when I fuck you. Gonna make you come a second time.” 

It’s the explicit permission that has Chan spasm around him in the tell-tale threat of his orgasm; Wonwoo uses his free hand to hold Chan down while he comes, his breaths harsh and shaky. Wonwoo tries not to hump the bed to his own climax as he watches, voice trapped in his throat. Chan’s cock pulses on every spurt, painting his lower belly and navel in pale-white. And he’s flushed a light pink from the highpoints of his cheeks down to his chest, splotchy coloring Wonwoo attributes to heat and arousal. He doesn’t let up on massaging Chan’s prostate with his fingertips until Chan’s breathing has gone even and his muscles untense. 

“Beautiful,” Wonwoo groans, pulling out and immediately fisting his cock, “think you could come again? Hm?” He squirts an extra dollop of lube onto his already soiled hand and slicks himself up with it, nudging Chan’s thighs further apart. 

Chan is still coming down. His lids are heavy, lashes fanned out. Wonwoo scoots up, draping Chan’s legs over his hips, and then pushes into his heat in one, firm stroke. “Shit,” he says, trying not to start thrusting right away, “Oh, _shit_.” 

“Hyu—” Chan’s entire body leaps, and a sob rips out from his throat; Wonwoo grabs his hips to keep him from sliding Wonwoo out and waits, trying to remain cognizant of the fact that he’s oversensitive and disoriented. “— _Ah._ ” 

“Okay?” Wonwoo bites out. “Did I—I hurt you?” 

Chan’s eyes are closed, but he manages a, “No,” and then adjusts, grappling for purchase on Wonwoo’s forearms. “Go. Go.” 

Wonwoo goes. He starts slowly, gauging Chan’s discomfort level. Just short, aborted thrusts angled down to avoid Chan’s overstimulated prostate as much as he can. Which is next to impossible with a cock as long and thick as his, but Chan’s body seems to appreciate it, relaxing gradually to take him in. Wonwoo does an appreciative rub with his thumbs into Chan’s hip bones. “You’re molded to my shape,” he says, knowing it’s nonsensical the second it slips from his tongue but too horny to give a fuck, “Not gonna be able to come from any other dick but mine. Yeah?” 

Chan hums, a low noise that blends into a tight-lipped moan. He tips his head up, baring the long, slender line of his throat—supple, wet. “No one else,” he sighs, licking his lips, “not gonna fuck anybody else.” 

“Because you’re mine?” 

“Yours,” Chan reaches out, hands missing their target over and over until Wonwoo leans forward and gives him his shoulders, “and you’re mine.” 

God, will he miss this. He’ll miss this. “Yeah,” Wonwoo chokes on a sob. He leans closer and closer, pressing their foreheads together and holding Chan’s legs from under his knees. “Yours. Take me.” He rolls his hips in full strokes, a fluid movement that Chan complements with the roll of his own. They create a cadence, following their own, quiet melody. 

Wonwoo hitches Chan’s legs up farther. He marvels at how high he can push them, Chan’s knees nearly to his ears by the time he’s finished moving into a new position. “Jesus,” Wonwoo laughs, awed. A dumb thing to be since he’s always known that Chan is flexible; he’s just… never seen it in this context. And now that he can, Wonwoo slows his thrusts to marvel, pushing a little more, enthralled how Chan’s body folds easily. “You’re—” he cuts himself off to laugh, incredulous. 

Chan laughs with him, albeit breathless. “Enjoying yourself?” 

“Yeah, I,” he drapes his body over Chan’s, and now he has Chan folded almost completely in half, his ass raised up off of the mattress and nestled in his lap, “how long can you stay like this?” 

“We’re about to find out.” 

Wonwoo fucks him like this. It takes some strength of his own, abs and thighs engaged so he can pivot downwards; he’s thankful for his years spent in the gym. He greedily laps into Chan’s mouth to swallow his punched-out _ah-ah_ ’s, exchanging moans for Chan to take. Their rhythms fall into line again, Chan essentially at Wonwoo’s mercy. He manages tiny jolts every time Wonwoo’s pelvis collides into the swell of his asscheeks, skin clapping loudly under the force. 

“Y’fuck me so good,” Chan says, his voice gone high and thin, “Harder, yeah, yeah,” he clings to Wonwoo’s shoulders, short nails drawing patterns on his shoulder blades. The sting adds an extra twist of arousal to Wonwoo’s gut, and he hisses into Chan’s throat before taking a soft nip. 

He quickens his pace, earning a slur of _there, yes, yeah_ from Chan. He’s tight, so tight. Heat follows the jut of Wonwoo’s spine until it sets his skull aflame. He’s going to be eviscerated. There’s ash in his lungs, soot clinging to every lobe. He’s going to suffocate; Chan’s got a hand to his neck and each gasp, each whine, each kiss crushes his trachea. “I love you,” Wonwoo says against his ear with the air he has left. 

If his lungs collapse, that’s what he wants to lose it to. Love. 

“Thank you,” Chan pours into his mouth—kerosene to a forest fire. 

Wonwoo comes, again, where no one else has been nor ever will be. 

They shower together. Lunch is late, but they heat up the last of the tofu and vegetables, then eat it at the kitchen table with a side of fruit. 

“Is there a movie you wanted to watch?” Wonwoo asks him as they clean up. 

Chan reassumes his job of packing the dishes away after being rinsed or drying them if Wonwoo went through the effort of washing it himself. “I think I have some bookmarked,” he says, “I can check after this.” 

“Okay.” 

Wonwoo continues rinsing and washing. “Anything you want for dinner? I know you’re tired of leftovers. We can splurge a little and get some pizza from Myeongdo—” 

“Appa sent me a message this morning.” 

Silence. The kitchen sink faucet gurgles, water sputtering over Wonwoo’s soapy hands. He has a sponge in one hand and Chan’s plate in another. When he takes a careful glance over, Chan is busy drying the bowl he’s been given. There’s nothing unusual or concerning about his expression, other than the fact that he’s not wearing one. 

It’s been weeks. 

“Yeah?” Wonwoo slowly resumes scrubbing. “Did he—he saw the vlog?” 

Chan shrugs a shoulder, blasé. “‘Dunno. He asked how busy it’s been. I told him about our Jeju trip. Then he asked if I was coming home any time in December.” 

Wonwoo knows he needs to tread carefully. Use the tools he learned from his brief stint in therapy or when reading his self-help books. So, “How do you feel about that? You wanna go home in December?” 

“I miss my brother,” Chan says. “I wanna see him. I don’t know if I want to see my parents yet.” Wonwoo doesn’t respond to this other than staring at him, a silent urge to continue. “He hasn’t talked about whatever,” he waves a hand, “happened after that first message, so I don’t really know what to expect.” 

There’s… no good advice to give for this. The irrational portion of Wonwoo—which is, admittedly, a large portion of his psyche—wants to tell Chan that his opinion doesn’t matter, because he’s not the one having to give up his life for thousands of strangers. Chan wouldn’t like to hear that one, though, no matter how much stress his dad’s put him through. Wonwoo can sympathize. What he can’t do is provide guidance. 

“Sounds like he misses you,” he offers. 

“Or he wants to tell me to my face that I’m a failure,” Chan shuts it down. 

Probable. But, Wonwoo isn’t going down that easy. “No matter what, you’re still his son. His wildly successful son. He has to miss you, even a tiny bit.” Chan doesn’t deny this one, so he figures that’s his in. “I’m not telling you to go visit if you don’t feel safe doing so; I’ll be happy to have you here with me throughout December,” he hesitates on those words, wondering distantly if he’ll be here in December. “Um—don’t, like. Push yourself into doing something you don’t want to do. Think about it.” 

Chan nods. 

They enjoy a few more minutes of comfortable silence. 

“You’re not going home in December?” Chan asks. 

Wonwoo huffs a little laugh. “My… relationship with my parents is kinda strained. Y’know. Them wanting me to change jobs,” he falters on that again, eliciting a curious glance from Chan, “get married, have kids. Also them not knowing I’m—not? Straight?” 

“Sounds like we’ll be having another December to ourselves,” Chan says. 

“Oh, no, how horrible, what ever will I do?” Wonwoo cuts the faucet off once he’s passed the final dish to Chan, and then wipes his hands with the kitchen towel. He folds over and presses a kiss to Chan’s temple, strands of hair getting trapped in his mouth. 

“I know,” Chan twists his head to peck Wonwoo on the lips, “it’s awful. You read me sad poems and make me watch sad movies; I’m gonna suffer.” 

Wonwoo rolls his eyes at him, but returns the peck. “Not my fault you’re illiterate. Pick up a book sometime.” 

“Asshole.” 

“Sure. Hurry up and finish drying—I forgot that we didn’t finish Kutbyol-nim’s poems. 

The final piece is Wonwoo’s favorite from the collection. He tells Chan that once they get settled, and then he reads the first half of stanzas. “I want to hear this part in your voice,” Wonwoo tells him, and thankfully Chan doesn’t tease or question it; he simply cuddles up closer, getting a good look at the book, and uses the gentle inflection he saves for special moments with his fans, for his brother—

_To provide is_

_to lift you up to a higher place,_

_stroking the end of your branches that shove in blindly,_

_shivering on a deserted mound;_

_it is to wait for you, lying down low_

_waking up the root end of you, who has been buried alone in the ground_

_Like providing water to a rice field_

_Like offering tears to a wound_

_Like serving as a bottom to a bottomless bottom–_

_to become holy rice_

_to an open mouth_

_that has sowed and reaped a life_

_rather than saying I love you_

(Wonwoo fucks him again in their bed when the sun falls. Chan is a gaze that won’t be forgotten.) 

  
  


Wonwoo doesn’t mean to count the days, hours, minutes, but he does. The bomb planted to his sternum flickers to a much lower number when he checks his emails in the company van, reading the subject _Asan Medical - Interview Date for Jeon Wonwoo_. Two emails, actually, with identical wording, except each contains a different time and date. Chan is inside the studio filming another advertisement for _Kolon Sport_ , now for next year’s Spring collection, and Wonwoo decided to remain in the driver’s seat to send-in a request for time off work. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s had to request time off. It’s always given to him, _forced_ upon him. If Chan goes home, so does he; there’s nothing to do if Chan is off-duty. 

The engine purrs as he taps on KaTalk and types. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

I got interviews for both positions next week. 

Thursday and Friday. [5:42 a.m.]

Wonwoo is trying to piece together everything that he’s feeling, but they’re swirling into one another, ink in water, and he cannot tell where one thought begins and another ends. The anxiousness that wracks his body into tremors _could_ be some excitement. He hasn’t had an interview in more than half a decade. It’s a new corner, a page turning. A simulation at being a functional career man. More obvious—there’s fear. Fear that churns his gut one direction while guilt takes it another. His intestines are telescoping, and suddenly there’s a genuine fear that he’ll barf up the coffee he drank. 

This is—it doesn’t—it’s wrong, isn’t it? Accepting interview dates without even discussing it with Chan? How would _he_ react if Chan did that to him? 

Wonwoo fumbles to type another message. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

I haven’t told him yet. 

When do you think is the right time? This feels wrong. [5:54 a.m.]

Minjun should be on the commute to work by now, if not there and checking in. He’ll respond sometime soon. Be patient. Wonwoo has nothing but time at the moment, anyway; they arrived ten minutes ago, almost late because they were busy exchanging blowjobs right before the alarm went off, and Chan’s shoots take three hours _at least_. Wonwoo has time. If the anxiety gets the best of him, he can just turn on some heat, lean back in his chair, and try to nap. 

Relax. There’s time. 

Wonwoo is settled in the leather cushions and performing some breathing exercises when his phone vibrates. He nearly drops it through the crack between the seat and the center console in his haste to unlock it. 

**Park Minjun**

Don’t let your anxiety get the best of you. Remember that you’re telling him as a courtesy to him and not as an obligation. 

You’re fine to wait up until the day before. Even the day of. Even after both days. The objective is to let him know it does not matter when. 

You have to work through your attachment to him it is a hindrance to your growth [6:10 a.m.] 

Again—it’s advice that would make sense, if not for the issue that, one, Wonwoo is in love with Lee Chan, two, Lee Chan is in love with Wonwoo, and three, they’ve built something that Wonwoo doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to replicate. He’s preparing both himself and Chan for heartbreak. That’s what it is. He’s been propelled into a relationship that he knew wouldn’t last, because Chan won’t leave and Wonwoo doesn’t want to stay. 

They’re at a standstill. 

So… Minjun needs this information. If it’s genuine advice Wonwoo seeks, Minjun has to have context and nuance. Chan isn’t some idol client that Wonwoo carries an unhealthy attachment for. This runs deeper, settling in his bones as sediment, weighing him down. Wonwoo’s affections for Chan is the greatest weight he bears. 

Minjun can cater feedback to Wownoo’s needs if Wonwoo would stop being a coward and express that. What kind of friendship is he rekindling if he can’t do this, admit to being in love? 

He should. He must. Not over KaTalk, but—he will. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

I’ll explain over dinner tomorrow. 

Sorry to bother you at this time of day. [6:24 a.m.] 

Wonwoo waits for Minjun’s affirmative— _Alright, sure. It’s okay I’m here to help_ —and then flicks over to whatever Soonyoung sent him. Hearing about a life that isn’t his own would be fantastic right now. 

**Kwon Soonyoung**

Mingu almost burned the kitchen down!!!! Look!! Kkkkkkkkkkkkk [yesterday, 9:51 p.m.] 

[PHOTO ATTACHMENT] 

The kitchen does, indeed, look awful. Food scattered over the tiles, counters in disarray. The burner is singed black and so is the bottom of the pot Mingyu has on top of it. Wonwoo laughs, rolls his eyes. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

You two are horrible for each other. 

If you get arrested for arson don’t expect me to bail you out! [6:29 a.m.]

Idiots. He and Chan work better as a team in the kitchen. Whenever Wonwoo lets him help, of course; he prefers to do it. Setting up their dishes and arranging them on the table, picking out Chan’s favorite meats and vegetables at _Orga_. He can imagine that they’re married, and while Chan is off at work he’s at home preparing for his return. Then Chan, stressed and exhausted, comes home to a set dining table and his husband, Wonwoo. 

Wonwoo lets out a heavy breath, sinking into the driver’s seat. Maybe he’s the idiot, too. What Mingyu and Soonyoung have are real, not imaginary—and Wonwoo is the one that’s abandoning any semblance or imitation of that dream. He’s abandoning the illusion. 

(But _is_ it an illusion, if it exists inside their minds?) 

His head hurts. Wonwoo pries open the center console compartment, producing a small bottle of painkillers. Popping two into his mouth, he picks up whatever is left in his coffee mug and swallows the pills down with its remnants. 

He’ll get a better perspective tomorrow night. Whatever Minjun has to offer, he’ll listen. 

**Kwon Soonyoung**

I’m sure my sister will come mingu out since she loves him so much -_- 

they’ll let me rot!!! [6:40 a.m.] 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

I’m sure she loves you both equally. 

He’s family now <3 [6:46 a.m.] 

This also begs the question—why not tell Soonyoung? They barely knew one another’s ages and favorite foods when Soonyoung told him he had an ex-boyfriend that helped him with choreography. A reckless move, but a _Soonyonug_ move nonetheless. Soonyoung may take it better than most will. 

Except, he works too closely to Soonyoung; if that confession goes wrong, he’s stuck with him. And, he’s also losing his only friend here in Seoul. Wonwoo doesn’t know how well his interviews will go, either—hence the reason for holding off on telling Soonyoung he may be resigning until after the fact. 

Right. Wonwoo will wait. His confession depends on how Minjun reacts, how Chan reacts, and if he’s offered the position(s). Reading Soonyoung’s incoming messages—I’ve been family longer!!!—he send a laughing sticker and then flicks out of the app. 

He accepts the interview dates before getting comfortable in the chair and closing his eyes. 

Minjun went to Pochang University. It was in his top three when they’d created their lists, but SNU was in his number one slot. If he made it in there, he and Wonwoo could’ve remained close. They could’ve maybe leased an apartment together, used the second bedroom as a gaming room and slept dormitory-style with their beds in the other. They clung to these dreams like a lifeline, high school and homelife a pervasive game of hide and seek. If they let their guard down, one day they would’ve been found. They knew that. 

It was equally the most exciting and worst day of Wonwoo’s life: finding out he’d gotten into Hanyang University, and then looking over at Minjun, who’d had rejection letters from all of his top five except for Pochang. University decisions are an odd, confusing beast. Whatever earned Minjun leverage into Pochang was his disadvantage or inconsequential for SNU, Yonsei. And Wonwoo—Hanyang saw him as an asset, while Pochang and KU found his competition more admissible. Nonsense rules and formulas that Wonwoo could not parse. 

What he could parse was his disappointment. His grief. “We’ll stay in touch, it’s fine,” Minjun told him later the next evening, after celebration dinners and a day of tolerating overjoyed parents, “this isn’t a death sentence. We got into great schools.” 

They exchanged books, albums. Minjun gave him a few of his collector’s items—special editions of girl group CDs, a signed polaroid of Sunmi dating to their debut comeback. Wonwoo gave him his poetry books, one of the erotica novels that they loved and shared through first and second year. Frequent visits were possible, but they both knew what lied ahead of them were late nights in the library, surviving on one hour of sleep on a daily basis, and begging for graduation day to come around; they wouldn’t have time to breathe, let alone take a day trip to visit one another regularly. 

Wonwoo shouldn’t have let his inferiority get the better of him. Not with Minjun. _Anybody_ but Minjun. Yet, he let it succumb him, and losing touch with Minjun was the final strike to his mental state. He was the family’s shame. 

He was his own shame. 

“I’m going to have dinner with my friend Minjun tomorrow night,” Wonwoo tells Chan a few days after the _Kolon Sport_ shoot. “He’s here today and tomorrow for work, and he wanted to catch up. Will you be okay in the dorm?” 

They’re in the studio. Chan wanted to practice for an upcoming solo dance cover, and ever since Jinho had given him the choice of songs earlier that afternoon he chose one and immediately got to work. _I want to choreograph it by myself_ , he’d said, when they offered to call Soonyoung to help him. 

Chan’s about to replay a section of the song when Wonwoo relays the news. Chan glances over at where he sits against the far wall, work laptop and phone on Wonwoo’s lap. “You’re coming back, right?” 

“Well—yeah,” Wonwoo says. 

“Then, I’m fine. I’ll wait up for you.” 

“No need,” Wonwoo waves a hand, “I don’t know how long it’ll take and I don’t want you to interrupt your slee—” 

Chan returns to looking at his phone screen. “It’s fine. It’s not like you’re gonna be out until two a.m.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Then,” Chan shrugs, “see you after you’re done. I wanna hear how it goes.” 

Wonwoo’s lips part to say something else, but Chan taps on the play button and the studio fills with the beginning sequence of the pop song. So. That’s that. 

The rest of that day—as well as half of the next—crawls in a slow, dreary amble. Anticipation and nerves allows other anxious thoughts to swim between Wonwoo’s ears. He’d been so preoccupied with the suspense of admitting his love for Chan to Minjun that he hadn’t spent enough time dwelling on the fact that he was going to see him after _many_ years. They’d met up maybe once in Wonwoo’s fourth year of university, and after that the only time Wonwoo had seen him was a rare appearance on social media. Mostly his hand or arm since Minjun is as insecure as ever—but still, it was _something_ of him. 

Now… Wonwoo is sitting in the dorm while Chan is out at the dance studio, and his phone buzzes with a KaTalk message from Minjun. 

**Park Minjun**

8:00 p.m. still cool? 

I’m at the lotte city hotel in myeongdong 

I can meet you at the bar. It’s empty tonight kk [6:49 p.m.] 

He’s close. They’re in the same city, about to meet up, and Wonwoo is already dressed and ready to go. He’s managed to straighten out his hair, clipping his fringe short enough that they sweep over his eyebrows instead of play in his lashes. His tee is some faded League tee he’s had since high school that now fits tight to his biceps, shoulders, and chest; and his jeans are fitted, dark. It’s cold out this time of year—especially with the sun already sleeping—so he has an insulated leather jacket on over the tee. 

Casual Jeon Wonwoo. Out of work clothes, into something he’d wear if his every waking hour wasn’t spent being a manager. 

**Jeon Wonwoo**

8:00 p.m. is good. 

Thanks. See you soon. [6:57 p.m.] 

At 7:20, he books a KaTaxi. At 7:30, he’s out on the sidewalk to the taxi pulling up. Traffic is horrible this time of night in the city, but the hotel is close to the dormitories and Wonwoo would rather be late getting there than be early and look too overeager. He gives a quiet thanks to the driver as he crawls in and settles by the far window, tugging the seatbelt across his chest. 

The drive is stop and go. Seoul at night is a firework display—muddled colors and shapes, hoards of pedestrians and even more cars. Wonwoo leans against the window and watches life happen around him, scenes he seldom sees when he’s indoors all day every day. This is a Saturday night he hasn’t had the opportunity to cherish in forever; not like he did anything other than play PC games or read on his Saturday nights. A routine he may return to, soon. 

Wonwoo’s phone buzzes, and he looks down to read the notification. 

**Lee Chan**

Have a good time <3 

See you later tonight ^_^ [7:54 p.m.] 

The affection eats away at Wonwoo’s ribs, burrowing deep to hide and fester. He feels queasy. 

Wonwoo puts the phone back in his leather jacket pocket. 

Once the taxi pulls up to Lotte City Hotel, it’s a few minutes after eight. “Thank you,” he tells the driver, pushing his door open and stepping out. Once the car takes off into an open gap in traffic, Wonwoo tips the driver on the app, then bobs and weaves through the pedestrians to enter the hotel lobby.

A blast of warm air slaps his cheeks as he steps through the threshold. The entire first floor’s walls are picture windows—glittering with festive lights—and the lobby is sleek, modern: white marble floors, tall, dark oak walls. The furniture is either a matching oakwood or cream cushions, gold embellishments to the rugs, the chair and table legs. 

As promised, it’s empty. There are a scatter of business partners meandering either towards the elevators or in the direction of the bar. The receptionists are two women with their hair slicked back into buns, wearing stiff uniforms and stiff postures. An aroma of pine and patchouli submerges the air. 

Wonwoo suddenly feels wholly underdressed and wholly unprepared. He takes an awkward look around, wondering if he should go ahead and walk towards where he can see the open restaurant and bar, or to tug out his phone and let Minjun know he’s in the lobby, where they’d planned to meet. A receptionist is beginning to notice him standing there, in the middle of the marble floors, looking confused. 

Then there’s a man approaching him, shouting, “Wonwoo-yah!” a tad loud for a private establishment. Wonwoo twists his head to look just in time for the guy to slap him hard on the arm, cherubic face wide in a smile, glasses thick and sliding down his nose bridge. He barely reaches Wonwoo’s shoulders, and is dressed in a plain tee and jeans of his own. Park Minjun. 

“Minjunie,” Wonwoo laughs, almost incredulous. He slaps him hard on the arm in return, laughing when Minjun yelps and cowers, and then drags him into a hug. “Holy shit, man, how are you? You lost some weight?” 

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Minjun cackles. He tightens his arms around Wonwoo’s middle. “ _Look_ at you! You were already a flower boy but now you’re a _muscular_ flower boy? Life isn’t fair.” 

Wonwoo nearly forgot he’s gained a few kilograms of muscle. Now shy, Wonwoo peels away from Minjun and fixes his jacket collar. “Yeah, I,” his smile twists on his face, “I have some time to work out. The gym is free for staff.” 

" _Some_ time?” Minjun takes a step back to appreciate Wonwoo’s stature, and Wonwoo takes this time to do the same. “Wonwoo, man, you’re _hot_.” 

“Okay, okay, stop,” Wonwoo shoves Minjun’s shoulder. Minjun makes a theatrical show of stumbling at the push, and Wonwoo laughs, rolls his eyes. “I get it, okay? Yeah. I’ve been working on myself.” 

“Well, stop, okay? I can’t introduce you to my wife like this.” Minjun’s hair is short and neatly styled, fringe parted at the side. “Or my daughter. She’s already having crushes ‘n shit. Damn.” When he adjusts his tee, Wonwoo’s eyes find the glinting wedding band on his finger. It’s not anything he doesn’t know, and still he feels a sinking swoop in his chest, a longing that he may never alleviate. 

“I’ll be sure to wear my ugliest clothes if I get to meet them,” Wonwoo tries. 

Minjun chuckles. “Like that’ll help with your face. Anyway,” he turns to glance down the hall, at the bar. “Let’s grab a drink?” 

“Sure.” 

There are some customers spread out across the dining room, but the bar is devoid of people save for a man at the end, leaning on the marble wall with his beer glass. Minjun and Wonwoo sit on two stools somewhere near the center; the bartender notices their presence immediately, and Minjun orders a beer on draft while Wonwoo asks for a mango margarita. 

“Tell me,” Wonwoo starts, turning in the swivel cushion to face Minjun, “how are things? Work? Family?” 

Minjun takes a short sip of his beer, smacking his lips together. Then, “Good, good. I facetimed with Yeoreum and Yeona when I got off work. They were prepping for dinner together; my parents came to visit yesterday. Normal, everyday stuff. You?” 

“Nothing exciting,” Wonwoo says, “nothing near being a _family man_. Insane. We’re in our thirties, man. I can’t believe it.” 

A laugh, as boisterous as Wonwoo remembers, but with a deeper, more mature timbre. “I used to roll my eyes when mom said childhood is the fastest part of your life. She’s so right. I was sixteen one day, and now I have a wife and a little girl.” 

“I can’t imagine it. _You_ , I mean. Do you still have the Sunmi polaroid and rare edition albums?” 

Minjun gulps down a fourth of his glass and sets it down on his coaster. “Yep,” he pops, “in my office closet. Yeoreum doesn’t really care, but it’s—yeah. It’s weird for a guy my age to hold onto that stuff.” 

“It’s pretty common, actually,” Wonwoo tells him, “do you know the age demographic for Chan’s male fans? I’ll give you two guesses.” 

“Mm,” Minjun props an elbow on the bar and leans his chin in his palm, thinking, “Thirties?” 

Wonwoo snorts. “Older.” 

“No way. Forties?” 

“The men that make it to his hi-touch events and fanmeets? Yeah. They buy _thousands_ of albums, man. I’ve never seen such dedication in my life.” 

Minjun cackles, incredulous, giving Wonwoo a wide-eyed grin. “Damn. I had no idea there were old man fans for boy idols, too.” 

“Oh, naïve little Minjunie. You don’t know the half of it.” 

“I thought ahjummas were obsessed with the young boy idols,” Minjun tries, “and vice versa for the girls. Jeez. Weirdos. How does Chan react to them?” 

Wonwoo parrots Minjun’s position with his elbow on the bar counter, other hand feeding the straw into his mouth. Mango margarita hits his tongue, and it’s a cold blast that sinks into his throat and chest. “He’s a good guy, thankful that anybody supports him no matter how old or creepy. I think that’s why the same men keep coming back to get their albums signed; Chan is sweet.” 

“It’s why he’s such a good idol,” Minjun agrees, “I don’t watch much of his stuff, but I’ve seen some. He’s always smiling, always laughing. Not everyone can be a public figure like that.” 

The cold of the margarita gives way to a rush of warmth. It stirs up the sediment, has his brain whirling over the past six years of watching Chan perform. That passion and commitment, the genuine love for his fans in those pretty, pretty eyes. Dedication that even Munjin can see. His Lee Chan. 

Right. Alright. 

“Speaking of,” Wonwoo starts. 

“Speaking of,” Minjun says, chuckling over the rim of his glass, “your worry about quote-unquote ‘leaving’ Chan.” 

Wonwoo squirms. He mindlessly fiddles with the straw, squishing it and letting it recoil over and over, creating little paths in the icy drink. “Right. That. Just—it’s complicated.” 

“So they say.” 

“I got attached,” Wonwoo admits, “sure. He’s really—really good. A good friend, a good person. Minjun, like,” he shifts into a more comfortable position on the stool, straightening out his posture, “I have never seen such determination before in my entire fucking life. You know how in high school the top performers would spend their _life_ in study hall and at academies? Eat, sleep, everything there, because they wanted to go to SNU or Yonsei?” 

Minjun considers him carefully. “I remember.” 

“He’s,” Wonwoo meets his eyes, “more than that. Take that, and multiply it by three. I’m serious. This is more important to him than his own family, his own body, his own health—mental and physical, he’s,” another pause to collect his words, fingers beginning to tremble, “everything. And he treats me like I’m something when I’m _not_ —not like him.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Minjun interjects, “you’re a great guy. Smart, kind. He can see that.” 

“He makes me feel great,” Wonwoo says. “I’m not used to feeling like a person. To everyone else, I’m a means to an end, but Chan—Chan looks at me like I’m the goal. I’ve never—” He’s getting choked up. _Shit_. Minjun is staring at him as if he’s witnessing something vaguely troubling, and Wonwoo’s getting teary-eyed. He swallows around the pressure in his throat and clears it, rolling his shoulders. “Sorry. Um. I’ve never had anyone really. Do that.” 

Minjun is quiet for a moment. Then, “Do what?” 

“Look at me like he knows exactly who I am and loves me despite it. _Because_ of it.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t need to elaborate—not with Minjun. The quick flutter of expressions on Minjun’s face before it settles somewhere in-between is Wonwoo’s answer. Minjun opens his mouth, hesitates, then closes it. Opens again, vocalizes. Nothing. Wonwoo watches his eyebrows gradually inch closer together, a crease curving. 

He’s visibly shaking when he makes a blasé attempt at sucking another gulp of margarita down. Anything to busy his hands, cool down the heat building underneath his skin. 

“Wonwoo,” Minjun settles on, a distant, raspy sound. He shoves his glasses up his nose bridge, sits back in his stool. There’s a far away glaze in his eyes as he fixates it over Wonwoo’s head, thinking. Then he looks at Wonwoo—who’s suddenly very interested in the condensation on the side of his glass—and repeats, “Wonwoo. Do you—?” 

Wonwoo holds his breath. 

“ _Loves_ you? _In_ love?”

They meet eyes. Wonwoo can’t parse the glimmer in his gaze and isn’t sure if that’s a positive thing or not. “In love, yes. And—me, too. Him.” He exhales. Holds. Inhales. _One, two, three_. 

Minjun doesn’t move nor react, still blinking curiously at him like he didn’t hear his answer, so Wonwoo presumes that it’s not good enough. And, it isn’t. This isn’t the context Minjun needs or deserves; if Wonwoo is going to tell him, he’s going to have to say it all. As much as he’s willing to give. Minjun needs to give it time, Wonwoo has to let him process it, he needs—

“A few days after he turned twenty,” Wonwoo starts, “we slept together. Not, like _together_ —just. In my bed. For a minute. And he told me he loved me,” trusted him, but that’s the same thing to Chan, “I didn’t realize it until later that I really did love him, too. I was scared for a whole year, Minjun. I thought may—maybe I misremembered, or misunderstood, but I didn’t. He told me again after the scandal.” 

No response, no reaction. Wonwoo pauses to study Minjun’s unwavering stare, then persists. “I knew—well, realized I felt the same. I did, an-and _do_. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. We—we had a date the other week, we sleep in the same room now, and he’s cute, so cute, Minjun, he ma—” 

“What the fuck?” 

Wonwoo gapes at him. Frozen in time and place. 

“You’re not joking,” Minjun says, though it’s framed as a rhetorical question posed to himself. He rubs fingers into his temple, blinking rapidly. “Holy shit. You’re not kidding. Wonwoo,” he looks at him—and _now_ Wonwoo can parse the expression: 

Shock and disgust. 

“He’s a _kid_ , Wonwoo, what the fuck?” 

Scandalized and a little shocked himself, Wonwoo retorts, “He’s not a kid,” in a soft quiver. 

“He’s—the minute he turned twenty you fucked him?” 

“I didn’t fu—” 

“He hasn’t been an adult for even _two years_ and you’re fucking him?” Minjun wearily glances around, almost worried someone will hear and fucking arrest him for speaking to Wonwoo at all. When he makes eye contact with Wonwoo again, the shock has fallen into concern. Disgust and concern. “Wonwoo. How old was he when you met him?” 

Wonwoo hesitates. He has no idea what’s happening. He’s extremely confused, the conversation tugging him in a direction that he hadn’t memorized nor prepared for. Still disoriented, he mutters, “Why does that matter?” 

Minjun’s brows twitch, annoyed. “Why—” he looks around some more, then leans in. In a more hushed tone, “Why does that matter? Wonwoo, tell me. How old was he?” 

Long silence. There’s soft jazz music playing that he hadn’t noticed before. 

“Thirteen. But, again: how is that relevant to now? He’s a grown man, Minj—” 

“You knew him since he was thirteen. Wonwoo. You’re thirty-one fucking a twenty-one year old ki—” 

“He’s _not_ a kid,” Wonwoo repeats, and this time it’s loud enough to draw a quick glance from the bartender. The two sit and wait for a few seconds before regarding one another again. “Minjun. What the fuck. Don’t paint me this way; we both have talked about thin—” 

“That was fantasy, Wonwoo,” Minjun obscures the rest of his sentence with his own. “ _Fantasy_. I’m in my thirties, and I don’t look at ki— _people_ —in their early twenties as serious dating partners. He was twenty _last year._ ”

“A twenty year-old _adult_.” 

“That you knew when he wa—” 

“Does it matter when I knew him? What I know now is that he’s a man, and I’m in love with a _man_. Don’t do this to me. Don’t paint me this way. That’s not fair—you’re not—” When his voice cracks, he abandons the sentence and rubs at his eyes. 

Minjun gives him a moment to sit and stew, and then returns softly, taking his time with each syllable, “I can’t tell you what’s morally correct. That isn’t my decision to make. I’m—I think,” he sighs and stutters, “I ‘dunno. Alright. You’re dating. I think this is more reason why you need to change jobs. With better perspective, you may look back at this situation and see what I see.” 

Wonwoo stops rubbing, but doesn’t remove his hand from over his eyes. “What do you see,” he deadpans. 

“A very young man,” Minjun starts, inflection still careful, “looking for love from anybody that sticks around long enough. And another man, who’s… who’s lonely. And insecure. I know you’re not doing this intentionally, but—alright, this is gonna sound bad.” There’s another few seconds of thinking. Wonwoo drags his hand up into his hair, focusing on Minjun’s conflicted gaze. “To anyone else, this situation is gonna look like—predatory. Like you groomed a child star. That’s where my mind went, and I _know_ you. So… imagine how anyone else would take this.” 

He’s going to throw up. It’s a genuine possibility. 

“I strongly, strongly suggest taking these interviews seriously. It’s not healthy for either of you to be trapped in this situation; years of mental stress and loss of control breeds negativity. I’m telling you, as a _friend_ , that this is not good. Do you hear me?” 

He’s going to throw up. He’s going to suffocate on his vomit and fall off of the stool. If he’s lucky, maybe it’ll kill him. 

“Wonwoo-yah? I’m not mad. Hey, man—I love you. I’ll always love you. But, I can’t pretend this is ri. . .” 

He’s not. He’s not a predator. He never thought about Chan in an unsightly manner before he turned twenty. He _didn’t_. It never crossed his mind. How can he convey this? 

“. . .give it a few days to think over. Think about how well your relationship would hold up if you two met organically. Like… I ‘dunno. Where do people ten years apart meet? Bars? Wonwoo?” 

Wonwoo’s body is protesting, and it’s a sensation he recognizes as stemming from a lack of oxygen. He hasn’t been breathing. His lungs are panicking. Wonwoo sucks in a shaky breath, blinks the tears away, and then finds Minjun staring at him with a mix of concern and confusion. “Yeah?” he croaks. 

“Please,” Minjun reaches out, fingers centimeters from touching the base of Wonwoo’s glass. It’s all Wonwoo can focus on, the space between their fingers. Two different skin tones, different lengths and widths. A wedding band that seems to find the light no matter how it’s angled. “Do the right thing. I said I can’t tell you what’s morally correct, and that’s because you should know. You know. I’ll consider it a lapse in judgement; we all make those. Take some time to think.” 

His mind becomes preoccupied with the idea that he’s being condescended to. Minjun has seen him for the mess—the monster—that he is, and he’s placating him, taming a wild animal from an outburst. They’re not the same boys they were growing up in Changwon. Wonwoo is a monster and Minjun is the career man that has his morals in check. 

Wonwoo’s the beast that rattles behind his ribcage. 

He doesn’t know how he gets through the rest of the night, but he does. Fake laughter, false agreement. Self-hatred has never felt so visceral in his life; he’s grown accustomed to it over the years, letting it ferment and attach itself to every part of his soul. Once it became an innate part of him, solidifying to his foundation, it was easy to forget it existed. Something happens, someone says something unkind or unpleasant to him, and, _oh_ , there it is. For that breath, he remembers that this is who he is: shameful. 

Wonwoo doesn’t stop feeling sick through the margarita and small-talk. At eleven p.m. Minjun walks with him to the lobby as he pays for a KaTaxi. His chest is hollow as Minjun says, “It was so great catching up again; we have to do this next time I’m in the city. Or, if you move to Busan,” and his words feel empty when he answers in kind. 

“This is the hard part,” Minjun is telling him out on the curb. “After you get settled into your new position, you’ll be able to breathe easier. Do the right thing.” 

The right thing. 

Wonwoo’s taxi pulls up ten minutes later. He hugs Minjun, promises, “I’ll keep in touch,” and then stumbles into the backseat. The ride to the dormitories seems much shorter than the ride to Myeongdong. Partly due to anticipation, partly due to heavier traffic at eight—partly due to the fact that Wonwoo’s mind swallows him whole. Having to sit in the muted buzz of a radio and reflect on the night (the past six years) fills his hollow chest with soot. 

He arrives at his destination five kilograms heavier.

The elevator ride up to their floor passes in second-long increments. One second he’s leaning against the chrome wall trying not to barf, sob, or both—the next he’s plugging in the key for the lock pad. It buzzes and whirrs, and he pumps the handle, stepping into the foyer. 

Their common space is dark and quiet. The fridge is humming and the floorboards are warm. Wonwoo shoves his shoes into his cubby, then stumbles into the kitchen. He sucks down a glass of water from the filter; it removes the tacky, sugar-sweet coat on his tongue from the margarita and opens his throat. 

When he opens the door to his (their) room, he finds Chan awake and alert, sitting up against the headboard flipping through a book. Chan startles, looking up at him as Wonwoo zeroes in on what he can see of the cover. _Rising Tide_. 

“Wonwoo hyungie,” Chan says, soft and still so loud in the silence. Everywhere is dark, but the light that sneaks in through their blinds leaves stripes across Chan’s body. “Welcome back. How was it?” 

Wonwoo doesn’t move from the threshold. He stands and stares, gaze scraping over the book in Chan’s hands, the sleepshirt (Wonwoo’s sleepshirt) that clings to his shoulders, his mess of chestnut hair and the glasses perched on the tip of his nose. His. 

“Hyung?” Chan closes the book and sets it aside. Close to the nightstand. Where—

“I want to put the collar on you tonight,” Wonwoo says, voice steady despite the storm and its flame that eats away his final string of hope, “and fuck you. Can I?” 

Chan stares. And stares. Whatever he finds, he seems to accept; “I’d like that,” he breathes. “Want me to—should I undress?” 

Wonwoo stops to think. Then, “Keep the shirt on. Everything else can go.” 

Ever the good boy, Chan obeys without question. Wonwoo doesn’t move from his spot, just stands and observes as Chan kicks his legs out, sliding his briefs down and off. It’s the only other article of clothing he was wearing, a quick strip show that nonetheless has Wonwoo’s arousal stirring at the base of his spine. Chan sits and waits for further instruction, eyes going round in submission—in trust—so Wonwoo shrugs off his leather jacket and lets it drop with a dull thud behind him. 

“Let me see you put it on,” Wonwoo says. “Put on your collar for me, baby.” 

Chan licks his lips, nods, and then crawls on all-fours to reach the collar where it sits on his nightstand. Wonwoo gropes at his clothed cock while Chan works, breathing shakily, gaze heady; Chan fingers the rivets for a moment before he tugs the strap from its frame. Then he finds Wonwoo’s eyes, maintaining eye contact as he tugs the collar around his own throat and secures the prong in the tightest hole he can without choking himself. Wonwoo doesn’t have to tell him to test out the tightness by sliding two fingers underneath. Good boy. 

Boy. 

“Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen,” Wonwoo sighs. He tightens his grip around his swelling cock, biting back a groan. He’s so hard already, immeasurably turned on by how obedient Chan can be. Obedient and submissive because he wants to be, not because he has no other choice. 

Chan laughs softly, eyes sharpening, a seductive smile quirking at his lip corners. “C’mere,” he whines on an exhale, draping his body across the bed. The shirt rucks up his thighs, bunching right underneath his groin. A cascade of chestnut brown hair flows across his forehead and in his eyes. 

“Tell me,” Wonwoo starts, making a slow amble towards the bed, “what I can do. Limits.” 

Chan watches him get closer, blinking as if underwater. “You promised me rough and I never got it,” he says, “I wanna feel owned.” 

“Like an object?” Wonwoo advances onto the bed, two fists pressed into the mattress and a knee up behind them. He lingers there, rocking but not crawling any further. 

“Your object.” 

Wonwoo reaches out and wraps his fingers around an ankle. Soft and lean, bone jutting out into his palm. “Color?” 

“Green.” 

Wonwoo tightens his grip on Chan’s ankle and _pulls_. Chan lets out a short yelp, his body dragging across the mattress until his ass is tipping off of the edge, and Wonwoo smashes their mouths together, sucking and biting and taking claim to any centimeter of skin he can find with teeth. Chan writhes under him, hands clawing down his arms uselessly. 

“Sweet,” Wonwoo mutters into his mouth, tongue sliding in for another taste, “Love kissing you. The way you squirm around drives me fucking crazy.” 

Chan stills at the acknowledgement, seeming to not even realize he does it—which makes it so much sexier. He holds loosely onto Wonwoo’s forearms and lets him kiss, tries to meet his fervor but can’t with the constant switch of licking deeply, then nibbling along his lips, then sucking and licking some more. Covering ground. 

Shit. It’s sexy. He fucking hates that it’s turning him on, remembering the shitty night and then drawing back even farther, back to when Chan told him he was his _first_. Chan’s first man will forever be Wonwoo—old, sleazy, deranged Wonwoo—no matter what happens or where they go. Wonwoo could break it off right now, and Chan will have to forever live with the fact that it’s _his_ dick he begged for. It’s _his_ cock that’s molded its shape inside of him. 

“I trained you so well, haven’t I?” Wonwoo says, reaching one hand down to tug at his cock through his jeans. The space is tight, zipper digging into him; he pulls it down for some room, then gropes himself a little more. “Made you a good little slut already. Look at you.” Wonwoo finds the shape of Chan’s half-mast cock through the oversized tee and gets a grip on it, cotton material taking its shape. 

Chan’s hips jut forward, thick thighs quivering, and his arms fall limp on the bed. “You taught me,” he whines, kiss-swollen lips pouted, “taught me s’much, hyung, _nnah_ —” 

“Stay.” Wonwoo lets go to reach out and tug his nightstand drawer open. He retrieves his lube bottle and squirts some onto his fingers. “Show hyung how well he taught you and spread those legs.” 

He spreads them, bold and unabashed, tugging the shirt up with two fists until his cock is unveiled where it sits at the crease of his hip. His abdomen rises and falls with every breath, divot between his waist and ribs accentuated on the exhales. Wonwoo can’t help it; he bends over and sucks Chan’s cockhead into his mouth at the same time he probes Chan’s hole, then sinks a finger in without much delay. 

Chan gasps and clenches down around him, but Wonwoo slides down Chan’s cock until it’s sitting at the entrance to his throat, distracting him before sinking a second finger and crooking it. “ _Fuck_ ,” Chan slurs, entire body shaking. A hand finds Wonwoo’s hair, not holding on but just present. “I—don’t—” 

“You take it much easier now,” Wonwoo marvels when he pops off Chan’s cock. He watches his fingers work in and out of him, watches his cock twitch and precome blurt at the slit. “I trained this sexy body—shit. So young and can take cock like a pro. Corrupting you.” 

Chan laughs in-between moans, almost delirious. “Yeah? Corrupting your Channie? Barely knew how to kiss before you.” 

Oh, god, god, shitshit. The words shoot straight down his spine and wraps around to give his erection a jolt, excess ripples reaching up to clench his heart. Guilt and arousal is an earth-shattering mix of pleasure. “But, I taught you,” he breathes, “fuck—you just turned twenty. _Chan_.” 

“Fuck me,” Chan’s voice drips with tears, tight and high, “want your cock, please, fuck me.” 

Wonwoo uses one, clean hand to undo his jeans’ button. He frantically shoves them and his briefs low enough to free his cock, and then grabs Chan by his collar and drags him off of the bed and onto the floor. Chan yelps, gasps for air, not given time to reorient before Wonwoo grabs a fistful of hair and forces his head upright, Chan’s body scrambling to get his legs bent and under him. “Get me wet first,” Wonwoo mutters, shoving his fingers between Chan’s lips and forcing his jaw open, “c’mon. Give me my mouth.” 

Chan’s lashes are wet, and he pants around Wonwoo’s fingers, breath hot. He makes an affirmative noise before Wonwoo feeds Chan his cock, quickly holding Chan’s head with two hands before sliding as far in as he can. Chan chokes and tries to jolt away instinctually whenever Wonwoo’s cockhead reaches his throat, muscle spasming in protest. 

“Breathe,” Wonwoo says, not letting Chan escape. Not now. “Breathe through your nose and relax your throat. Lemme in.” 

His words sinking in, Chan begins to inhale through his nose, quivering. Wonwoo feels his tense body unfurl just enough—and Wonwoo takes that as his in, pushing past the resistance and through that tight, hot muscle. “Fuuck,” he groans, head tipping up. It’s good, incredibly good, the clench of Chan’s throat trying to push and suck him in at once. He rocks his hips and groans again as Chan’s convulses around his girth, noises loud and wet. “Fast learner. Incredible.” 

Wonwoo doesn’t fuck his throat for long. Chan needs his voice tomorrow and for the foreseeable future. As much as he’d like to be rough, fuck Chan the way he wants and deserves, he needs to remain cautious. So, he gives Chan a little while longer to gag and buck, trying not to shoot his load straight into his esophagus by how overwhelmingly tight and _hot_ his throat is. He pulls off and immediately wraps a hand around the base of his cock, fingers circling and clenching in an attempt to ward off his orgasm. 

Chan gasps for air, hands clawing at Wonwoo’s clothed thighs. Tears and spit are smeared to his cheeks, mouth obscenely red. Wonwoo scoops the phlegm crawling down his chin and shoves it in, muttering, “Suck,” before Chan obeys and laps his mess up. “Gorgeous.” 

He pulls his thumb free, then rummages through the bottom drawer of his nightstand, pulling out the shorter, pink rope. Chan is still dazed and recuperating when Wonwoo crouches down and fingers the D-ring of his collar. He ties the end of the rope to it, making a thick knot and testing it out, tugging. It’s not going anywhere. Perfect. 

Wonwoo measures the length from Chan against the bed to one of the bed posts and makes a knot around the post; the rope is too long to tie end-to-end, defeating the purpose, so with more than half of its length uselessly hanging from the headboard, Wonwoo can manipulate Chan with a smaller space. Chan won’t be able to maneuver anywhere past the very edge of the mattress. “On the bed, on your hands and knees,” he tells Chan, grabbing him by the faux-leash and forcing him to stand up or choke. 

Chan stumbles to his feet, grabbing at the rope and wheezing. “Yessir,” he tries, a plea for mercy. Wonwoo loosens his hold, and Chan takes that opportunity to do as he’s told. This way, Wonwoo can see everything—Chan’s back, bowed prettily, spine jutting out through thin skin; the tee shirt rucked up, hanging beneath his armpits; his asscheeks, spread and presenting his sopping hole; the lube that creates rivulets down the inside of his thighs; and his cock, hanging low and weeping strings of precome. Wonwoo pauses to reel, stroking his own erection. 

He lands a palm down onto Chan’s left asscheek, reveling in his yelp and gasp, and then squeezes at his flesh, kneading it between his fingers. Fat and muscle gives for him, tight, firm. “Your body was made to be fucked,” Wonwoo says, “your parents made a perfect cocksleeve.” 

Chan hums a moan, laughing breathlessly. “Come use it,” he purrs, accentuating the curve of his back to present himself for Wonwoo. Wonwoo lands another palm to the same cheek, and Chan jumps forward and gasps, but returns to his position, breathing, “please fuck me, ‘m trained for your co— _ah_ —” 

Wonwoo grips Chan by the hips and ruts forward, sinking in to the flared crown of his cockhead. Chan releases a blend between a sob and Wonwoo’s name, collapsing onto his shoulders when his elbows give out on him. “Up,” Wonwoo grits and he snatches Chan by the leash and twists the collar so the D-ring sits on his nape and _tugs_. Again, Chan is forced with the dilemma of choking or doing as he’s told, so he scrambles to push his upper body off of the mattress, biceps quivering. “Fall again and I’ll shorten the rope. Okay?” 

No response within two seconds. Wonwoo gives the collar a sharp tug, repeating, “Okay?” This time Chan answers quickly, grabbing at the leather with one hand and whimpering his _yes, yessir, I won’t_. 

Wonwoo empties the night into this scene. He fucks Chan like it’ll make any difference after, like if he does well enough he’ll crawl out onto the other side unscathed. Or maybe if he fucks in deep enough, has Chan screaming into their blanket nest loud enough, they’ll mold into two—shells fortifying, keeping everyone out. 

He’s hurdling off the precipice. Wonwoo curls over Chan’s back, forehead pressed between his shoulder blades, and pistons into him like this, quick strokes that punts a whine out of Chan, their bodies rocking in an unsteady rhythm. It’s frantic, messy, their skin sticking where sweat builds in-between. Wonwoo imagines being dunked underwater, light and soundwaves reaching him in a slow, distorted crawl—Chan’s pleasured cries, the way the bed whines and undulates beneath them, Wonwoo’s own, heaving gasps that he can hear as if there are headphones implanted directly to his eardrums. 

The longer he fucks Chan, the farther he sinks into the sea. Fractionated light dimming, his hands clawing onto Chan’s hips and waist to keep himself steady. His lungs are flattening. The pressure sinks into his chest, envelops every lobe until it’s impossible to breathe. Chan’s voice fades with the light, and instead Wonwoo is faced with his own thoughts, a biting cold that ties itself to his limbs— _predator, predator, foolish old man with fantasies of normalcy that you don’t deserve, he doesn’t even want you, he doesn’t want to move on from his dreams, hedoesn’tevenknowthatyou’re_ — 

Wonwoo tugs the knot, and the rope falls from tied to Chan’s D-ring. Chan doesn’t notice until Wonwoo forces the leather strap from its frame, and the collar falls loose from Chan’s neck, landing on the bed. He stops thrusting, sliding out, and Chan takes a glance over his shoulder, muttering a confused little, “Hyung?” 

“Red,” Wonwoo heaves. He pulls out of Chan, and they both wince. “Red, red—” 

It’s too late. The walls have trapped him in, and he’s panicking. He’s panicking. Wonwoo shoves his flagging cock into his briefs and drops to the floor, full body-weight pressed to the bed frame as he gasps, claws uselessly at the overhanging bed sheets. 

Pathetic. Absolutely fucking pathetic. The façade is broken, and now Chan sees him for what he is: a loser, a fucking loser that gets panic attacks during a scene. And yet Wonwoo’s filter refuses to contain anything else that may permanently destroy what they have, because he doesn’t shut the fuck up, he just keeps— 

“I’m so sorry,” Wonwoo’s voice breaks on a sob. He can’t hear or see Chan from where he’s crumpled up on the rug, but he persists, “Sorry, I’m—fucking—I’m so sorry—” 

He barely registers a palm pressing to his shoulder, a warm body crouching down beside him. A harsher sob jerks his chest along with it. 

“Channie—I don’t wanna—oh, fuck,” Wonwoo pulls his knees up and ducks his head between them. He’d learned somewhere that it helps ward panic attacks off, dipping his center of gravity low and breathing evenly. He sucks in and expels air in a rush, eyes screwed shut. Behind them, there’s the fractionated light bursting, tinier and tinier before black swallows them whole. There’s pieces of Chan’s soul stuck firmly to his. 

The warm palm slides over his clothed back, rubbing circles, finding knots. Loosening them with gentle fingers, warming the frost that clings to Wonwoo’s skin. Grounding. 

He doesn’t know how long they sit like that. Not long, maybe, because when Wonwoo tries to speak again he’s still crying, apparent in his voice even as he obscures his face from Chan. “Tell me not to go,” he stutters, “please, Channie, tell me—me I’m being selfish. I’m being selfish, I shouldn’t go.” 

Chan doesn’t answer. He keeps finding knots, lets Wonwoo dig his own grave—and he digs it, sinking deeper and deeper, begging. “Minjun,” he gasps, “he—and now I have—interviews—and I shouldn’t,” he lifts his head, rubs the tears from his vision to blink Chan’s careful expression into view, “Tell me to stay, Chan, please—I don’t want to leave you, I shouldn’t have applied to new jobs. Tell me, and I won’t go, Chan—” 

“Hyung,” Chan murmurs. Wonwoo watches, anguished, as Chan gives him a soft smile, fingers rubbing at Wonwoo’s neck and shoulders. “I’m not doing that.” 

Water stills. Wonwoo stares at Chan as if piecing him together, reorienting himself to time and place. Breaching water, Chan’s face and voice is loud in the silence of their room. 

“I can’t do that,” Chan’s inflection is quiet, careful. “It’s not selfish.” 

“Chan,” Wonwoo starts, “I have job interviews. Next week. If I get the jobs, I’ll—” 

“Get a new job, yeah,” Chan says. The neckline of his sleepshirt is wide, and it drapes down an arm, unveiling the bare expanse of his shoulder. His hair is a mess around his face, cheeks still flushed. Wonwoo takes it in, disoriented. “If they offer you a position, you take it. That’s what you should do.” 

“ _Chan_ —” 

“I want you to go. I know you want to go, too. So—go.” Chan’s smile is twisting wrong on his face. His expression is melting, and Wonwoo isn’t sure if he’s imagining it or if it’s Chan’s blasé disposition crumbling in real-time. “It’s not sel—” 

“It’s selfish,” Wonwoo is crumbling, too. He can hear how pathetic he sounds, wavering in tears and desperation, but he’s accepted that he’s a pathetic fucking loser, the family’s shame. This is his shame, the beast that hides in plain sight. “You know it’s selfish. This is supposed to be about you, this is—I can’t leave, you have to tell me to—” 

“I’m not telling yo—” 

“I keep having this dream. Over and over and fucking over again that it drives me insane.” Wonwoo lifts his head and turns to Chan, holding him by the forearms with trembling hands, then sliding them down to his wrists. His voice wavers. “I think about—about selfish things. You quitting and—and working at a studio, me quitting, us, fuck,” he sucks in another gulp of air once his head starts swimming, then dares himself to look into Chan’s dimming eyes, “us getting engaged in some restaurant, then—then living together. A two-bedroom in Seoul. Together, so-so I cook for you when you get home and we plan our wedding together, and—and—” This is the pinnacle of pathetic. He can’t sink any lower than this. He abruptly loses his train of thought, and he clamps his mouth shut, vision spinning into a watercolor of black and chestnut brown. 

Chan sits and waits. He lets Wonwoo’s shaky grasp shake him, too, and waits for Wonwoo to continue. When he doesn’t, he whispers, “Marriage?” 

Wonwoo swallows hard, blinking rapidly. “I love you so much. I don’t want to leave you.” 

Chan waits again. Wonwoo is forced to listen to his own sniffling and whimpers while Chan gathers his thoughts. Then he starts slow, murmuring, “I love you. Go to the interviews.” 

_Why won’t you fight for us?_ Why— “—won’t you ask me to stay?” 

Chan slides his hands down to intertwine them with Wonwoo’s, tight enough to obliterate Wonwoo’s tremors. This time Wonwoo knows he isn’t hallucinating it when Chan’s words wobble. “If I did that… the only person that’d be selfish would be me.” 

Wonwoo stews in that. Sits and stews, unblinking. And Chan doesn’t move either, doesn’t say anything else, not anything that Wonwoo wants to hear—not until Wonwoo curls into his chest, making himself small and insignificant, and suppresses sob after sob before they swallow him whole. 

“I’ve thought about it a lot, too. On my worst days, I thought about quitting and paying out of my contract. Especially after my scandal broke and it seemed like the entire fucking world hated me. Fans calling me selfish, appa ignoring my calls, losing my friends. My labelmates whispering and staring like we were in high school again. Yeah.” 

Wonwoo listens to Chan speak with his eyes closed, ear to Chan’s chest so each syllable jostles and rattles his skull. He’s tucked under Chan’s armpit, Chan’s arm draped over him as they curl together in bed. It has to be after three a.m.; the two showered together, then Chan lied with him as Wonwoo cried and cried, passed out, then cried some more. His head throbs, limbs weighing him into the mattress springs. 

“It’s all fantasy, though, because I know I’m never gonna quit. The day they blacklist me is the day I’ll quit,” Chan continues, fingertips scraping over Wonwoo’s bare bicep. Wonwoo sniffles. “I think… this is what I’m born to do. That’s what makes it different,” Chan looks down at Wonwoo’s head, “You’re not born to be a manager my whole life. You’re hands-down the smartest guy I know. You have two degrees from _Hanyang University_ , you love to write and read, you’re well-spoken. You’re not meant to be stuck here with me.” 

“I want to be stuck here with you,” Wonwoo croaks. His throat is scratchy and on fire, thick with phlegm. “I don’t want to leave you.” 

Chan’s sad laugh chatters Wonwoo’s teeth, clenches his heart and soul. “You’re not leaving me. I know I always have you.” He nuzzles his nose into the hair at the crown of Wonwoo’s head, whispering, “You were a big part of the best years of my life. Thank you.” 

Wonwoo’s responding laugh is a wet whimper. He clings harder, burrows further. If only, if only. “Thank you,” he says. 

  
  


Love is: serving as a bottom to a bottomless bottom. 

  
  
  


**Jeon Wonwoo**

Where are you right now?

I need to talk. Just an hour of your time, at most [9:14 a.m.] 

**Kwon Soonyoung**

Dance studio on the fifth floor!! I have a lunch break in an hour so if u come now u have time :3 [11:14 a.m.] 

⬳

**NETIZENS REACT TO SNEAK PEEK OF KALEIDOSCOPE’S NEW SERIES, FUN IN JEJU ISLAND!**

Read more... 

  1. Omg that scene looked so touching!! Im glad chan and seungkwan oppa could have a heart to heart. I feel like i learned so much about their friendship!! 
  2. As a boosadan, Chan will always be in my bias line for this reason. He has helped seungkwan oppa so much and i am thankful they let us boosadans and colours see this TMI. i am very excited for this series 
  3. I cried watching this 5 minute clip so im sure ill be in tears when the episodes are released kk 
  4. Youve helped us colours too chan oppa!! We’re rooting for you no matter what!! 



⬳

“Mmm,” Soonyoung gives a long hum, scritching at his chin, “that’s tough. Real tough. Minjun-ssi said that?” 

Wonwoo squirms where he sits on the studio floor, staring absently at the cherry oak wood. He has his palms pressed between his knees to stop them from shaking. “Yeah. He’s right, I think.” 

“A _groomer_? Eh,” Soonyoung grimaces at Wonwoo, plopping back onto the mirrored wall. He’s drenched in sweat, the front of his tee completely soaked. “I ‘dunno. That’s a huge stretch that I don’t think was fair to say. Is it _weird_ ? Yeah. Should you change jobs if you’re _unhappy_? Yeah, again. Will I _miss_ you? Triple yeah. But, are you a _groomer_? I don—” 

“Soonoyung.” 

Soonyoung snickers, then schools his expression. “Sorry. I think maybe I’m biased, ‘cause, like, I know you. Know-know you. You and Minjun-ssi were friends a long time ago, but he hasn’t met big, adult you. If Chan loves and trusts you, that’s what matters. Don’t feel bad for not wanting to be a manager anymore.” 

As everyone says. Wonwoo takes a glance at his phone calendar. There’s officially two days until his first interview, and he and Chan haven’t spoken about it since that night. It’s like a shameful secret, the way they don’t hold eye contact for too long in fear one or both will start crying. Wonwoo’s been especially volatile lately, ready to sob at the flick of a wrist. 

It’s why they haven’t tried to have sex since Saturday night. Just cuddling in bed has Wonwoo drowning, clinging onto a rapidly dissipating dream. 

And—Minjun. 

**Park Minjun**

Hey, I hope I didn’t offend or scare you away. I really did enjoy catching up. 

Please message back and let me know you’re okay. [Sunday, 6:29 p.m.] 

Wonwoo doesn’t… know what to say. It isn’t that he’s offended or scared. Well, he’s scared, yeah, but not of Minjun. He’s embarrassed. Ashamed. Feeling small and juvenile compared to someone like him. The feelings of inferiority he thought he’d be able to escape once they reconvened haven’t gone away; they’ve become stronger, oppressive, telling him that it’s best to not respond if he doesn’t have anything to say that’ll make it better. _I broke up with Chan,_ or _I had the interviews and I accepted a position_. With neither the truth, Wonwoo isn’t prepared to face Minjun again. 

“It’s easier said than done,” Soonyoung continues, “I get that. But, you’re the only person that can live your life. Try to live it the way you want.” He squeezes Wonwoo’s closest knee, and then stands up. There’s less than ten minutes until he has to go teach choreography to 8-teen; Wonwoo watches him clamber to his feet. “Keep in touch, okay? Let me know how the interviews go, and if you do move on, don’t forget me. Let’s go out to bars and talk sometimes. Promise?” 

His laugh is hollow, painful. “Yeah,” Wonwoo tries. “I won’t. Thanks.” 

“Go eat,” Soonyoung says with a grin, cheeks displacing into his eyes. “It’s lunch time.” 

He doesn’t go eat. He goes to a mandatory conference amongst managers and Park to discuss schedules, tentative plans. Chan is busy interviewing and shooting for _Vice,_ delaying his conference to later night. Wonwoo sits with his complimentary bottle of water and tugs absently at the wrapper, eyes on the glass table while Park speaks to Jinho, Sungmin, and him. Youngjin is on Chan-duty until Wonwoo can go meet them at the _Vice_ studio. 

“I’ve approved Jihoon-ssi’s demos for the album,” Park is saying when Wonwoo tunes back in. “He went ahead and finished during postponement, so I sat with him for a few days and went through each song. It’s too early to say when, but I’m _reluctantly_ proceeding with preparations for Chan’s comeback.” 

“Public reception has improved since his _Seventeen_ interview,” Sungmin says to his tablet, scrolling through something Wonwoo can’t see from his vantage point, “and the mini-series clip release. I was thinking we could push this _Vice_ interview up to this weekend. I spoke to Sooyeon-ssi, and she has more clips saved that we could use. I was hoping you could review them, Kwangjo-nim.” 

They share screens with the flat screen installed to the wall, and once Park approves seeing the clips, Sungmin pulls up each. Everyone sits and watches quietly; the first one is them cooking lunch together, laughing and squealing like teenage boys as the food sparks, bowls fall over, their feet scramble for purchase on the slippery tiles. The second and third are scenes at Dongmun market, feeding one another pieces of fresh fish, and then them at the beach. Jinho gets Sooyeon on speaker phone to discuss it again with Park, and after the most boring twenty minutes of Wonwoo’s life, they make a unanimous vote on the kitchen scene. 

It shows enough to keep fans wanting, but doesn’t spoil anymore of their TMI discussions like the first clip did. 

So—it’s decided. The comeback date remains ambiguous, but they’re going to push forward with preparations just in case. If Chan is lucky, it’ll be announced right after _Fun in Jeju_ wraps up in February, keep the excitement rolling through the rest of winter. 

Wonwoo makes the active decision to be happy for him. He ignores the long stares Sungmin and Jinho shoot him as he stands up, bows, and walks out of the conference room after two, grueling hours. This is—good. This is good. This is what they want. 

He refrains from informing Chan when he goes to pick him up. Chan jumps into the van and shuts the door, then leans over the center console to kiss Wonwoo. Wonwoo returns one of his own. (Every kiss feels like goodbye.) 

“Hi,” Chan says, clicking his seatbelt in. His makeup is still on, immaculately done, hair glossy and slicked into a side part. “How was the conference?” 

“You’ll see,” Wonwoo hums. He shifts gears and backs out of the parking spot. “How was the shoot? They give you interesting questions for once?” 

Chan titters. “Half and half. It went from, _who’s your best friend in the idol world?_ to _tell us about your creative process_. I had to talk myself out of answering, _what creative process?_ ” He titters again. 

That’s the Chan post-schedules that he remembers. Talkative, baring perfect, white teeth. Wonwoo reaches out with his free hand, lacing their fingers together, pressing their palms to one another. Chan’s voice fades, gaze dropping to where they touch. He tightens their hold. 

“Better than most, is what I’m hearing,” Wonwoo says to the road. 

“A lot better,” Chan says. “And no questions about Hongdae. Lucky me.” 

Wonwoo takes him to the company building. They share another kiss before stepping out of the van, and then a few more in the elevator. He can sense Chan’s nerves building up—probably fearful for what’s going to be discussed since his previous conferences were to give bad news—and while they crawl up floor by floor, Wonwoo pins him to the corner and takes that mouth. Takes it and wrangles with the troubling realization that he won’t be able to commit this to memory no matter how many times he does it. 

The moment their lips separate, it’s as if he forgets, wants to learn how to kiss Chan all over again. If he leaves, he’ll forget. 

And maybe Chan will, too. 

The elevator doors slide open, and they separate instantaneously. Chan fixes his shirt, spruces up his hair in the chrome wall’s reflections, and then steps over the threshold. Wonwoo places a hand against the door jamb to keep it open, says, “I’ll wait for you in the lobby, okay?” 

Chan turns to look at him. Nodding, he replies, “Okay. Okay.” 

“You’re gonna be fine. It’s fine.

They hold eye contact. Longer than they have been over the past few days. Wonwoo shoots a smile braver than he feels. 

“Okay,” Chan says again. He turns around and starts down the hall. 

Sitting in a near-empty lobby with nothing to do but wait gives time to think. Wonwoo gets comfortable in a love seat with his phone, off to the left of the receptionist desk, and absently watches the television screens play music videos from every Kaleidoscope artist. 8-teen’s most recent comeback—the dark concept Jun explained during that dance cover vlog—is currently on, Seokmin doing some high note while the others dance around him. (Seokmin. The other man that fingered Chan.) 

Being happy. Wonwoo can’t let go of this. He’s unhappy with his dead-end job. Right. There’s an insinuation from everyone he’s told that he’ll somehow be happy with another position, with another company, juggling less responsibility. And everytime he hears it, the idea settles wrong in his gut. Is there any guarantee that he’ll be happy—or, _happier_ —in another city, with more free time? What does it mean to Wonwoo to have free time? 

It… it means more time to do the activities he once loved. Minjun was correct when he’d told him that. Wonwoo can read the books he’s wanted to read, watch the films he’s had stacked up in his bookmarks for _years_ , buy the new MMORPG from _Gravity Interactive_ and stay up late grinding. The hobbies he had in high school and university. 

Wonwoo hasn’t forgotten, though, how empty he felt even then. How he still fought himself, writing and hating it and tossing it in the trash. Reading poetry books in his bunk bed, lonely, miserable. How he flickered through girls and guys like they were pages in his novels, jumping from one person to the next once he bared his soul to them and they discovered they’d been swindled by a handsome face. Hundreds of kilometers away from his true best friend—and fighting off the parents that looked at him and saw a mentally ill waste of resources. 

_Would_ he be happier? This current position has sucked up every waking moment of his day, has knocked and rattled his insides around its vessel, has bruised him and told him what pure misery meant. It’s also given him what he’d never had before—a love that settled quietly. How could Wonwoo go chasing happiness when he’s happy with what he has? As happy as he could ever be, ever _has been_. 

His fantasies aren’t unique to him. Everyone has dreams that are configured for a perfect world. Wonwoo has to accept that he’s not ever going to get that: a job he loves, a husband, a skyrise in Seoul, talks of kids (if that’s what his husband wants), family members that accept him. Hell, Chan’s life isn’t perfect, either, as adored as he is, as lucky as he is to have gotten this far in an industry that eats kids up like mints. 

Which begs the question—what is Wonwoo chasing, exactly? When he imagines himself five years by now, what does he want it to look like? 

A woman that he vaguely remembers from the financial department walks across the lobby, heels click-clacking on the marble. When Wonwoo refocuses, the TVs have moved on to a live performance from Seungkwan. He’s singing a cover of some popular ballad. Lee Sunhee’s piece. 

Wonwoo digs his phone out of his jacket pocket and unlocks it with his face. His screen opens to his KaTalk, where a few unread messages wait for him. 

**Park Minjun**

Wishing you luck on your interviews. Please call or message back. [5:04 p.m.] 

If Wonwoo can’t achieve his flawless life, he’ll chase the illusion. Call it juvenile, stupid, whatever, but if this is Wonwoo’s reality, he’ll bend and twist the rules as he sees fit. His fantasy of marriage and a skyrise is false. His parents will never completely accept him. His brother will never see him as an older sibling worth respecting. He’ll never marry Ahn Hara and have four boys. That’s all a mirage. 

Wonwoo flicks out of the app. He opens the web and types into Naver. Once the site pulls up, he taps on _jewelry_ , and then scrolls through, fingers trembling and fat-fingering products he doesn’t want to see.

But this—Lee Chan—isn’t. 

“Wonwoo hyung?” 

Wonwoo looks up from his phone. It’s been an hour. Chan is standing in the lobby, eyes round and wet, face blotchy, pink. He’d been sitting in one room and yet looks frazzled as if he’d just got done dancing. Maybe running. 

Wonwoo tucks his phone into his jacket pocket. He stands. They stare at one another for a good ten seconds in silence, officially the longest they’ve maintained eye contact since their night. “Congratulations,” Wonwoo breathes. “You’re—yeah.” Chan nearly trips over his feet taking the few strides left to wrap Wonwoo in his arms. It’s so tight Wonwoo can feel his rib cage crushing. This is a feeling he isn’t unaccustomed to; so he folds over, curling his upper body around Chan’s, and holds him back. 

  
  
  


**Park Minjun**

How did the interviews go? 

Good? [xx/xx, 9:25 p.m.] 

Wonwoo? Are you upset with me? I’m sorry. Pick up. Let’s talk about it. [xx/xx, 5:42 a.m.] 

Did you go? Hello? [Yesterday, 8:12 p.m.] 

**Kwon Soonyoung**

Fingers crossed!!!! [xx/xx 8:02 a.m.] 

**Park Minjun**

I’m worried. At least let me know you’re alright. [11:49 a.m.] 

**Kwon Soonyoung**

Hey!! Dinner?? Lemme know hit they went @-@ [3:08 p.m.] 

⬳

**SEVENTEEN: THE HIGHS AND LOWS OF FAME WITH IDOL SUPERSTAR LEE CHAN**

Read more… 

**What have you been doing since your previous comeback? Any future plans to tell Colours about?**

Thinking. A lot of thinking. I haven’t been any less busy since the postponement, but I still have more dead space in-between schedules to get lost inside of my head. I’ve been thinking about a future comeback, and what I would do differently if Colours allowed me another opportunity to show them that I’ve changed, but I’m the same Lee Chan, too. I haven’t lost dedication; in fact, I’ve fallen more in love with performance this year than I’ve been any other year before. 

They say distance makes the heart grow fonder. I think that could be why. Also: you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. I say I’m still dedicated to showing Colours every side of me, but when you do this for so long sometimes it’s easy to become a little complacent. My dad helps keep me on track on my low days, as well as reading supportive comments from Colours. 

The answer is, thinking. Brainstorming. I want to become better and better, and if I earn another comeback, I want to return stronger. Colours deserve that. 

⬳

  
  


“What is this?” Chan laughs, grinning as he raises the red box from the kitchen counter. 

Wonwoo sets their teetering dirty dishes down into the sink, then turns to where Chan has assumed his position as honorary dish-drier. “Don’t freak out,” Wonwoo starts slowly, “I’m not, like—it’s not what you think. It’s early. I just wanted to, um—symbolize.” 

“Symbolize,” Chan parrots. He raises a shaky hand to the top, cupping his fingers around it. He doesn’t open yet, but studies the red velvet material as if trying to figure out what a jewelry box is. “Symbolize what?” 

“My,” Wonwoo falters (good thing he put the dishes down, because his arms are shaking), “devotion.” 

He thinks that says enough. Chan doesn’t ask prying questions about why he didn’t take the time off he requested. He doesn’t ask about what they discussed two weeks ago. He simply opens the box, letting it snap into place, and stares at the two, silver rings. “Wow. How much—?” 

“Don’t worry about that.” Wonwoo takes the box from his hands, and Chan’s gaze and body follows it, under a spell. “We can’t, like. I know you can’t wear it on the proper finger, because. Being an idol. So,” he pinches one and lifts it from its bed, turning to Chan, who is already raising his left hand and fanning his fingers out, “I thought maybe your…” he slips it onto Chan’s pinky finger. It slides over his knuckles and nestles there at the hilt. A perfect fit. “Yeah. There.” 

Chan stares at it. It’s thick and expensive, a Cartier love ring with _C.W_ engraved into the inner cuve. Wonwoo’s is _W.C._ Before he can put it on himself, Chan snatches it out of his hand, mumbling, “Let me,” before taking Wonwoo’s left pinky and slipping it on. His eyes flicker from each, their hands pressed together. 

Wonwoo can’t stop staring, either. “It’s,” he says, stumbling over the words he rehearsed, “not something we can wear together. At once. In public. But—I, um. Hope you like it.” 

“Hope I like it,” Chan scoffs. His voice is steady, though when he meets Wonwoo’s eyes he can see the shell peeling, and fast. “You’re—there’s something wrong with your brain.” 

A surprised laugh. “Yeah?” Wonwoo says. “Tell me what I don’t already know.” 

Chan steps into his space, shoving the jewelry box out of Wonwoo’s hand and onto the counter. He nestles his face into his chest, arms wrapping around his middle. “What does this mean?” he mumbles. 

Wonwoo’s hand finds his hair. He cards his fingers through it, watches chestnut brown cascade over silver. He’s shaking. Every part of his body shakes, overcome, overwhelmed. He’s had time to think this over, though, and he knows what he wants. He knows now, and he’s welcomed that instead of chasing it away. 

Nuzzling his nose against Chan’s temple, he breathes in mint and lavender. On the exhale, he whispers, “It means forever.”

The confession doesn’t settle wrong like all the others. This is what Wonwoo has accepted— that they’ll remain on their stages meant for one, now holding two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's... done. Wow. My second, long-form fic for Svt was a wonchan; I still find it difficult to believe. Thanks so much to everyone that read, left kudos, commented, bookmarked--anything that showed appreciation, I'm very thankful. This fic wasn't meant to be as long as it was, but I told myself to give it the justice it deserved. 
> 
> This goes to you, Nikki. Our shared adoration for Lee Chan blossomed a friendship that I am so thankful for, and when I found out this was your prompt it kicked me into higher gear. Something that was meant to be a ~20K oneshot became a 6-chaptered, ~96K monster. 
> 
> Also huge thanks for the brainworms goes to the rest of what I affectionately dub the Dinonara Counsel: Mimi, Robin, Nikki, Em. The majority of these ideas were not born from me alone, and I refuse to take credit for something that does not belong to me. You guys are the best. 
> 
> If you're interested in reading my longer thoughts/ideas about this fic, you can read about it on my Dreamwidth: [Click!!](https://amismatch.dreamwidth.org/414.html)
> 
> Otherwise, thanks so much again for reading, and I'd love to hear all thoughts about the fic. Love you all. [heart emoji]

**Author's Note:**

> [my CC if you wanna chat](https://curiouscat.me/disiIIusioned).


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